The Count was not one to take visitors in the middle of the night, but Sir Alan Tinsley was a different matter. In their youth, they had formed part of the core of the renowned adventuring group 'Reavers of Aethwin'. Membership had changed over the years, but during that formative decade they had been among the cornerstones of the band. 'Lightning' Alan Tinsley, Vick 'Blackblade' Varonne, Garthur Steelwright, Windhawk, and Miena of the Startower were the ones known throughout the land back in their days of glory, though there had been others. Most other faces joined only for specific quests or perished early, some left due to disagreements with how things were done, but the band had been responsible for some great tales under the watch of those five. They had slain Faryx the frostwyrm, they'd had a hand in the downfall of Jaron Daar, and numerous other exploits that had earned them recognition in the eyes of the realm.
Over the years, the band had drifted apart. There were still some young blood who adventured under the name 'Reavers of Aethwin', but it had fallen from the days of glory. When peace settled over the land, many of the casual members went their separate ways. Garthur was the first of the core members to leave, returning to the subterranean halls of his forefathers to enter the tales of his journeys into the dwarven annals. The heir they had restored to the throne appointed Windhawk as Warden of the Royal Forests, and the elven woman ranged freely through them, keeping to the old traditions of her people. Miena had vanished years ago, her tower left a smoldering ruin, her assistants fled and her libraries burned. It was assumed she died in some dangerous experiment.
This left Alan and Vick to their retirement. Alan had begrudgingly accepted his knighthood, leaving the majority of the fame from the group to Varonne, who was appointed Count of Aethwin and entrusted with the guardianship of the city. On the few occasions that Alan had to observe the work involved with such a task, the old rogue was glad to leave it to Vick.
This wasn't to say that being a Count was all toil and trouble, a point made clear by the very grounds which Alan hurried across. The path to the front doors passed manicured lawns and a grand fountain. Before him, the wings of the manor spread out to either side. The white stone architecture managed to look new, although the place had been built centuries before. Although the exterior looked polished smooth, here and there were still signs of bas relief carvings long weathered away, likely from an even older structure from whence the stone of the building was quarried.
The doors were massive oak, reinforced with iron, and even at this late hour a pair of guards stood watch. Clad in red and black colors over tunics of mail that had seen more time being prepared for pageantry than anything approximating actual combat. Each was armed with a halberd, with tassels of red and black, as well as a more useful wooden truncheon at their sides. They appeared as if they were there for show, but if Alan knew Vick, the Count had likely kept them in peak fighting form through some means or other.
Suspicions were confirmed when the two immediately shifted into a challenging stance, blades swinging down and feet spreading. Alan couldn't blame them, a mysterious cloaked man hustling in haste across the lawn in the middle of the night was the sort of thing that could set a man on edge. He paused out of reach of their halberds, and drew the hood of his cloak back in response to their call of challenge. It was really all he needed to do.
"Sir Tinsley!" They drew their halberds back, "What brings you out at this hour?"
"Grim tidings, friends. I must speak with Count Varonne. It is a matter of utmost urgency."
The guards looked to one another hesitantly, then one finally turned to address Alan, "He's ... entertaining Madame Pryce."
Alan's wince was noted by the guards, but still, the old rogue pressed on, "This is more urgent than Miss Pryce's charms, I assure you. My estate was just attacked." He didn't go into the details, of course. The stoney look on his own features spoke for him. Looking to one another again, the guards seemed to come to some silent decision, and opened the doors for him to pass. Without further hesitation, Alan strode past them and into the quiet halls beyond.
The interior of the manor was as lavish as its environs, with centuries of history of previous Counts displayed prominently on walls and stands. Paintings, tapestries, old sets of armor, everywhere one looked, new sights awaited the curious eye. Alan had seen it all before, and continued his long strides unimpressed. In his wake, there was soon the click of heels and swish of skirts as one of the maids stepped in behind him. The fact she said nothing to him told Alan all he needed of who she was.
"Daphne." It was as close to a greeting as he would offer as he continued on his way.
"Alan," The response came in soft, sultry tones. "You seem troubled."
She was beautiful. That much Alan knew even without looking at her. He could picture Daphne in his mind's eye, just from the rustle of her clothing, the click of those heels. She was fond of towering stilettos despite her already impressive height, and while the suede ankle-boots she usually favored would be inappropriate in her position as Varonne's maid, a pair of strappy leather soled heels would fit right in, likely complimented with lacy stockings. A quick glance down to the woman's legs as she came to stalk beside him confirmed those imaginings. Crisscross black leather straps left the arch of her foot and her toes on display through white lace stockings. Those stockings hugged up along legs that were long and sleek. Her skirt came to just above the knee, a somewhat utilitarian pleated black that still managed to cling to the curve of her ass, the swell of her hip. About her slender waist, an apron of white edged in lace with the same pattern of her stockings was bound.
The blouse itself was of a softer, clingier silk, black like the skirt, but cut low upon her shoulders and laid across the gentle swells of breasts that were just a little larger than a handful. Her smooth, flawless skin was a rich tan, almost golden in the flickering lamplight that lined the hall. Daphne appeared almost some fae creature below the graceful line of her slender neck, but above, her face was devastating. Angular and soft all at once, the elven woman seemed better suited to regal finery than the servant's outfit she admittedly wore so well. Full, pouty lips brushed moist and crimson would be inviting if they weren't set in a severe, flat expression. Her brows were delicately arched, and dark lashes were thick about eyes of startling amethyst, flecked with hints of gold. Long, dark chocolate locks were bound into an updo, pinned atop her head with small ivory combs that might be well above her station in any other household.
The two of them had history, a history Alan didn't want to think about at that point in time. But the old rogue knew he could hide nothing from the elf. "My estate was attacked earlier. They took Lizzy."
It was startling to see the elven maid unsettled by anything, but the look of surprise that crossed her lovely features was clear, however fleeting it might have been. She laid one slender hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry Alan. Is she alive?"
"I can only hope. That's why I'm here actually."
"To see Lord Varonne," She completed the thought, "You must be truly concerned about the ones who took her to seek his help."
"The guild turned on me."
"Devron wouldn't do that. You know that, Alan."
