There was something wrong with Roland's dream.
The fact that he was even
aware
that he was dreaming should have been proof enough, though that was merely the delirious prelude to the true terror to come. His head turned like he was underwater, his vision sweeping across the hazy landscape that surrounded him like a fog of indistinct colors.
He was... in Arjal. In the Red Light District. Above him in the sky, well beyond the tallest spires hung a great, scarlet Globe. The strange phenomenon glowed with a preternatural shimmer, dispensing light in an incandescent aura in all directions.
The red sphere was but one of eight magical constructs, an octagonal halo of lights set like a crown atop the fabled city's head. Roland had read once that each colored globe represented one of the schools of magic, each in turn the dominion of one of the eightfold Gods.
The Mage-Kings of Arjal had fashioned the massive globes in ages past to channel arcane energy through the very veins of their city. It was a metropolis made into a living spell, a place where - at times - the conventional rules of reality bent and twisted about in wild and uncertain ways.
This marvelous city was divided into eight chaotically-arranged districts radiating outwards from the centerpoint of the Mage-King's Citadel. The hilly city was, in fact, a geomantically-ideal channeling circle that spanned for miles.
But the particular place Roland found himself stranded in was a peculiarity amidst a truly peculiar polity. For the Red Light District - alone amongst the other districts of the city - was bathed beneath the baleful red eye of Huzra herself.
The red orb of Amphara blazed its pernicious glow down upon the looming whorehouses and gambling establishments, cursing them with the barest portion of her malice. The shadows cast by the Demon Goddess' eldritch light were deep and dark. They transmogrified the streets and buildings into sharp contrasts of crimson and black. At night, not even torchlight could dispel the pale, rosy tint it left upon all things.
Beneath its frightful glare, Roland, for a moment, faltered. He shifted his weight, feeling the uncomfortable heft of his guard's armor, and-
The young man did a double take, gaping at the temporal incongruity of his outfit. Upon the chest of his leather surcoat was stitched the sigil of Loherhof: a red Lion running rampant across a yellow field, bordered by onyx.
His hand reached down unthinkingly and lifted the ceremonial dagger of the Captain of the Guards free from its scabbard. He toyed with it in his fingers, lowering it with a haunting weightlessness back into its leather sheath. Awful clarity came at last as Roland realized his dread circumstances.
It was a play. This was a part. The setting was wrong, but the time of night was correct.
Roland felt the inexorable drag of something pulling him forward, driving him onward in sudden footsteps out of the alley in which he stood and onto the main street. Though the ramshackle buildings and bustling bordellos of the Red Light District were both dingy and decrepit, the roads themselves were wide avenues of meticulously maintained cleanliness.
Down the dark and murky cobbled road echoed the haunting pall of footsteps. Roland turned his head to the right, his mind latching on to the situation with the foreknowledge of one who had already lived through the coming proceedings. Roland could not recall this place in Arjal from his few, brief visits there. The location was wrong, but the events were correct. Why was this happening?
The figure that stepped from the shadows was unknown to Roland. Dressed in the faux-finery of a woman of the night, she was a strange admixture of frilly clothing caked in the grime of unrelenting poverty. Her dirty blonde hair was done up in dated fashion, dolled to resemble a northern Noblewoman's mountainous hairpiece. A dozen yellow ribbons fluttered in her hair. She was pretty enough, though time and experience had taken its evident toll on her.
Roland did not recognize her, yet she was at once unmistakable. She moved like Callie, the Demon of his past. Roland snapped to attention, remembering his place as he leaned casually against a wall. He watched as the woman in the gaudy getup struggled with a basket of grapes in her hands, waiting till she was nearly past him before making his presence known.
"-And just what is a scullery maid doing at this hour, marching about the streets with a basket of the Lord's finest vineyard?" Roland called out, a humored youthfulness to his tone. He stepped out from the heavy shadows and into the reddish light, his form silhouetted darkly in the crimson shine. He ran a hand across his chin, smooth despite his best attempts to grow a beard.
The unknown whore started, jerking back before matching eyes with Roland. "B-by the light of
Gosvin
!" She put a hand to her chest in chaste discomfort. "You scared me half to death, sir!"
Roland had known, even then, that Callie had not been surprised in the least by his abrupt appearance. In long hindsight he wondered if it had been mere chance that had twisted their fates together, or if she had - in her kind's predatory manner - chosen to ambush him at this spot herself. The truth was as ambiguous as the dream.
Roland strode up to her, affecting a posture of teasing authority. He reached forward, gently tugging at the basket in her hands as he bent his head over and inspected her bounty. "...Quite the haul you've claimed. Were you planning on holding a feast?"
The scullery maid played by a whore took an anxious step backwards, her head dipping as she caught sight of the young lordling. With a shock of red hair and strong features, Roland was a landmark face around the town. He was, after all, a hard man to miss: clad as he was in an expensive mail hauberk, bearing his family's sigil proudly on his chest.
Roland smiled at the maid, amused at her honest fear. She clearly hadn't lived in Loherhof for very long, if she was afraid of the Ronces. They were beloved by their subjects, and for good reason.
Just and proud, in equal order
, as his regal father was fond of saying.
"My sincerest apologies." She said, curtseying. "I did not realize who you were at first, my Lord."
"You don't need to apologize, yeah?" Roland said, laughing. "T'was only done in jest, my Lady." He paused, wiping at his bare chin. "...You speak with a highborn's tone. Do I know you?"
The whore stammered and glanced away. The act was strangely charming to Roland. "N-no my Lord! I am just a humble servant of his majesty, the Duke."
"As are we all." Roland replied. He let go of her basket and took a step back, allowing the poor thing some room to breathe. "The only difference is, our mutual taskmaster happens to be a personal relation of mine. More's the pity."
Roland shook his head back and forth. "How fares Herlinde in the kitchens? Haven't gone to visit her in ages. Does she still screech like a banshee when Alric burns the roast?"
The whore who wasn't Callie pulled back, caught off guard by Roland's questions. "You... know the Kitchen servants, my Lord?"
"Seems not!" Roland said, grinning. "After all, this is the first time we've met." He gestured for the whore to continue her walk. With a half-glance backwards she did as he asked. Roland paced along beside her, sauntering across the rain-slick cobblestones as they traversed the hazy dreamscape.
"What is your name?" Roland asked, clasping his hands behind his back.
"It's... Callie, my Lord."
"Roland." He said, tilting his head in greeting to her, as though he were giving a highborn lady her due honors. "A pleasure to meet you, Callie. You've livened up my evening considerably."
"Why is that, my Lord?" She asked.
Roland hooked his thumbs into the seam of his sword belt and acted for all the world as if he were on a casual stroll. Even as encumbered as she was, Callie was quick on her feet. He was forced to take longer strides to keep pace with her.
"Well," Roland said, "fer starters I'd be bored out o' my arse, patrolling a bunch of empty streets in the quiet part of town. The worst thing we've had to deal with around here for the last three years was a cutpurse and the occasional drunk."
"-Hence why you accost me, instead." Callie said, staring straight down at her basket as she walked. "An innocent maidservant, dutifully delivering grapes for her barking mistress..." She cast a sly glance in his direction. "Till you came along and
startled
me!"
Roland laughed aloud. "We all find ways to dull the boredom, yeah?" He replied. Callie met his eyes and let a smile play across her comely features. "Besides: I'm on a secret task from my father, the Duke. We both know yer smuggling these grapes in under the Lord of Loherhof's nose."
"But... to what purpose, I wonder?" Callie responded, keeping her deferential tone but allowing a hint of humor to seep into her voice. The peasant was daring to jest with her social better.
Roland took the bait. "Mayhaps something
dastardly
