Pum-purum-pum-puu-rum-puu-rum-pum-puu-rum...

Baron Maegar Varn was starting to regret the idea of shared office space. True, it was easier to do audiences with every concerned official present, but old Cephal's constant humming was slowly and surely driving him up the wall. Of course, Kjerdi had been smart enough to demand a separate office, just for herself, the coffers and the ledger, and as to Felicia... Well, Felicia was like the wind, now here, now there, always in motion, filling the sails of this little barony, pushing it forward. Now, for instance, coming up the stairs with her heavy military tread, a gait so natural for her that she could even do it barefoot, to the horror of any downstairs neighbours she might have.

She entered the throne room, stood to attention in front of him, and saluted crisply, raising her right fist to her heart. He greeted her with a warm smile.

"How is it going, love?"

Felicia deflated a little and rolled her eyes.

"Okay, let's try this again," she said, then turned and left.

"What did I do wrong?" wondered the baron, half to himself, shaking his head.

"Don't ask me," muttered the Regent in an absent, singsongy voice, and continued humming and leafing through his papers.

"Too late. I've already asked you."

"You can never know with women," said Cephal, his nose in his documents. "New shoes, new hairdo, new earrings, any other trifle you might have failed to notice. Maybe, Asmodeus forbid, a forgotten birthday. Anyway, leave me out of it."

Baron Varn breathed deep and braced himself for the second wave. Felicia entered again, in the same way as before, only her salute was a little less spirited.

"Ah, that's it!" exclaimed the baron, suddenly enlightened. "A new headband. So gorgeous! How could I miss it?"

Indeed, the new circlet sitting among her red curls was a great addition to her already amazing looks. It made him want to sink his fingers into her hair and bask in the light of her glowing eyes for an endless moment, taking in every detail of her unmatched beauty, then pull her close and—

"GAH!" exclaimed Felicia, clenching her fists in frustration. "Do I have to go out and come back once again, or will you find and correct your mistake all by yourself?"

"Perhaps if you communicated clearly, I would know what I did wrong!" snapped the baron, rising from his throne.

"I do communicate clearly!" she cried out. "I enter like a soldier, in uniform, with strictly regulated gait and movements, greet you with a military salute, and painstakingly refrain from simpering, blowing kisses, flashing sultry smiles, or allowing sneak peeks into my cleavage. Thereby I clearly communicate that I'm acting as your general and not as your ladylove. I expect you to receive me accordingly. Is that too much to ask for?"

"There we go again," muttered Cephal, pushing back his chair with a loud squeal. "Have fun, lovebirds, I'm going out for a smoke."

Flustered, both of them waited until the old man left the throne room. Then their gazes met again.

"I'm sorry, love," said the baron. "You've told me how important this is for you, and I'm really not that helpful."

"I'm glad you admit. Third time is the charm. You've got this, Maegar, I believe in you."

She removed her hands from her hips, snapped to attention, and performed another perfect salute.

"At ease, General. Report."

Felicia... no, General Darlac maintained her stern military face, but her gaze softened, flashing a spark of appreciation. She forgave him, thank Desna. Again.

"Your Grace, the situation is under control. The mastermind behind the riots has been neutralised by the people themselves. It was a half-orc woman from Galt. She is in prison now."

"Prison? Do we have a prison yet?"

"I had the old stables repurposed, remember?"

"Ah, yes, of course. How about the treasonous graffiti?"

"The fishermen are working on their removal, now that they've understood that the gross amount of fish they catch is unrelated to the political system they live in. The farmers will require some follow-up, though. There is some disease going around among the cattle."

"Ha! You're not saying they blamed me for that, too?"

"Yes, they did. I made a promise that we'd sort it out for them."

The baron frowned, trying hard not to give away his unease. He was not very good with animals. The upcoming visit of Baroness Guelder and her pet leopard was alarming enough in and of itself, let alone needing to go and treat sick cows before her arrival.

"We? As in me and you?" he asked, with badly masked despair in his voice.

"As in me, Gekkor and Faeli, if I can get her out of her trees for a spell. We might also need some scrolls, in case my Lay on Hands proves insufficient."

"Make do without scrolls, Felicia... erm, General. You know we must keep a tight budget."

General Darlac seemed to be forcing a snide remark back behind the fence of her pearl-white teeth. The baron felt a bit guilty. After her mother's death, the General had donated all her inheritance for the development of the town. It might not have been much in terms of building resources, but it was everything she'd had, including the money she'd saved up for her further education. It was bad form on his part to admonish her of frugality.

"Thank you for your efficient intervention, General," he quickly added. "You saved the day once again. I'm impressed. Can I compliment on your new jewelry now?"

"Headband of Alluring Charisma, Tier 3," she said flatly. "I purchased it as an extra safety layer to help me avoid bloodshed. I'm glad you like it, though."

"Make sure to wear it at the summit. I want you to show your top form. If all goes well, the Nightvale delegation arrives next week."

The General turned pale.

"Your Grace, today is Sunday. What do you mean by next week?"

"Anytime starting tomorrow."

"Ugh. That means we must hurry up with the execution."

"Of what?"

"Of the agitator, obviously. I expect you'll want to spare the simple people. They were just being stupid, as is their custom."

The baron leant forward on his throne. Disturbingly, the General had that inexorable scowl he knew so well, which meant it would be hard to dissuade her from whatever she had in mind.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"There will be no execution," he said softly. "I will not have someone killed for thinking differently."

"Not even if they undermine your rule and sic your own people against you? Think again, Your Grace." General Darlac raised her hand, holding her index finger very-very close to her thumb. "You were this close to being burnt to ash in your own keep. I was the only thing that stood between you and the angry mob. What if I had failed? This cannot happen again. But if there are no consequences, it will."

"You're overreacting, General."

"Am I now? The punishment for treason is death. It's the law."

"What law?"

"The fundamental law of Varnhold."

"We have a fundamental law? Since when?"

General Darlac had trouble maintaining her stance despite her growing exasperation.

"Yes, we do," she said, hardly restraining her anger. "It's basically the River Freedoms, expanded and customised for a monarchy. You had Cephal draft it two weeks ago, then you immediately signed it off for publication. Don't you dare tell me you've forgotten about it!"

The baron sighed. This was becoming more embarrassing by the minute. Perhaps he should actually read whatever Cephal put in front of him for approval. It would make a lot of sense, considering that the old wizard was a follower of Asmodeus, Ruler of the Nine Hells, Master of Contracts, Loopholes and Small Prints.

"Can we talk about this again after the summit?"

He stopped himself just in time from adding a desperate please. Darlac held his gaze, pondering.

"All right, Your Grace," she finally said, her discontent palpable. "I will not waste your time any longer. I'd better go check on the cows. You'll want the people all nice and happy at the summit, I suppose. Expect my written report tomorrow morning at the latest."

She saluted again, then made an about-face and left. A little white down feather was stirred up from the floor by her departing steps, then slowly floated back. The baron watched it wistfully, completely lost in its contemplation, until he realised he'd better ramp up the preparations. He really wanted to impress Baroness Guelder, even to the detriment of his tight budget.

After making arrangements with the innkeeper and a long and wholesome haggling session with his favourite dwarf merchant, which took the entire afternoon, the baron walked back to the keep at a leisurely pace. He found himself pondering various possibilities to improve the ford of the Kiravoy between the town and the keep in the near future, as it felt bothersome to wade through barefoot every single time or run the risk of missing a stepping stone and getting wet socks. Perhaps a temporary bridge made of rafts would do. Or a permanent bridge?

As he stood on the riverbank, immersed in his thoughts, he heard hurried footsteps approaching from behind. It was Felicia. Her face betrayed a sort of panic she'd never showed in the thickest of battles.

"Your Grace," she panted. "Did you make any suggestion to the baroness regarding what path to take towards Varnhold Town?"

"No. I just listed her options. The delegation will either cross the mountains to the west and the river Crooked, or come from the direction of Lake Silverstep. Both routes are equally taxing, I would say. Unless they make a detour towards Sorrowflow and hike around the mountain range, which is comfortable but long and boring. And there is too little forest. She will probably not pick that."

"So there is a chance they will want to rest at Blackstones Ford."

"Yes. In case they come from Silverstep, it's a natural choice to spend the night."

"Holy fringe... Then we are in trouble!"

"Calm down, General. Come walk with me."

"Fine. I'd prefer to talk this through at a more secluded location."

General Darlac took the lead, which was good, because she was much better at finding the stepping stones. Reaching the other bank, she set out upstream, towards a small stand of trees by the river, close to the wooden wall surrounding the town. A gnarled tree was reaching out above the water, almost horizontally. Sometimes it was occupied by one pair of lovers or another, who sometimes lost their balance on the branch and took an unintended bath, but this time it was abandoned. This place needed benches and tables, three or four, either wood or stone. Of course, that would make it less suitable for discussing strategy, but much more pleasant for a picnic.

"Here," she said.

"So why is Blackstones Ford trouble?"

"I have just been informed about something fishy going on at that location. Travellers disappearing. Suspicious food being served. If the baroness will pass through there and encounters something she shouldn't..."

The baron closed his eyes for a moment. The General was right, of course. He had no doubt that Baroness Guelder could handle any tough situation she might get into, but if she actually had to, that would be detrimental to the reputation of Varnhold and the relations between the two states.

"Can you take care of it for me, General?"

Felicia flashed a confident smile. The baron knew her all too well. Her go-to recipe against panic was to set to work on the solution immediately. Similarly, the baron's go-to recipe against panic was to set Felicia to work on the solution immediately.

"I'll set out in an hour with my usual team. Tehara, Gekkor and the Bruiser."

"No magic wielder?"

"My cover story would not allow for more companions. Gekkor and I will travel as a married couple, with the other two as our personal servants."

"Couldn't Tehara be your wife?"

"Don't worry, you know Gekkor is—" Then it sank in with her. Probably because the baron was grinning like a fool. "Oh, damn your erotic fantasies to hell! I'm trying to avert a scandal for you, if you haven't noticed!"

Too late. The image had struck root in his brain, diverting his thoughts into a very counterproductive but also very pleasant direction. Felicia went on strategising, detailing her plan, but he couldn't care less. She would manage anyway. She always did, smart and competent as she was. And sexy. Most of all, mind-blowingly sexy.

"Very well," he said somewhere halfway through the plan. He pulled Felicia close and inhaled the intoxicating scent of her skin. "Time is of the essence. In a forced march, you can get there by tomorrow noon or early afternoon. Let's hope that will be enough. But that means, if we want to do something tonight, then now is the time."

Felicia tensed for a moment as he undid her jerkin with fumbling fingers.

"Maegar, please, not here. Let's go to my place or yours."

"Why? I want you here and now. It's been so long since we last did it outdoors."

"Not long enough. Now that we are—"

He silenced her with a long kiss and kept it up until she relented and stopped fighting, breathless, panting with anticipation. He gently turned her around to face the tree trunk and unbuckled her belt, letting her trousers slip off to mid-thigh. A folded sheet of paper fell out and landed on the muddy ground.

"What's that?" he muttered, hardly sparing a glance at the document.

"My report on the riot."

"Lovely. Keep up the good work, General."

His hands slid into her underwear, peeling it off her, feeling out those lovely dimples on her butt.

"You could at least pick it up or something!"

"Later."

Felicia turned back to face him and yanked her trousers back on, tense with anger and frustration.

"This will not do, Maegar. I worked hard to write that report for you, and I won't have you treat it like rubbish. Pick it up and put it somewhere safe, or you can spend the evening with Rosie Palm and her five daughters. Understood?"

With a sigh, the baron collected the report, just in time before it got even soggier, stuffed it into his pocket. He would read it later on, maybe after the summit. Felicia obediently turned back to the tree trunk, stabilised herself with her hands, and finally let him have his way.

----------------------------------------

Willas Gunderson, Chronicler of Varnhold since yesterday, was hiding behind a tree trunk, waiting eagerly for Baron Varn and General Darlac to be on their merry way. His date could arrive at any moment. He'd suggested this spot to Faeli because it was quiet and peaceful, as close to undisturbed nature as any place in town. And now, instead of the pretty young druid, he had to enjoy the company of his boss and the bane of his life. It would be more than embarrassing if Faeli caught him leering at Darlac. But that was what red hair did to a man. He just couldn't look away.

Not when the red hair's owner was being the target of the baron's intense attentions.

A gentleman would have turned and left in complete silence. Now, Willas Gunderson was many things (an adventurer, a scholar, a hero, a pulp fiction writer, a genius, a conqueror of women's hearts, just to mention a few), but he never, ever pretended to be a gentleman. Not after General Darlac had dragged him to justice for his latest expedition into the Tors of Levenies, and meted out his punishment personally. Twenty switches. The cruel irony of fate had led him, one of the greatest dungeoneers of all times, to a country where dungeoneering was forbidden. But hey, Lady Luck finally smiled at him. He got an important job where he could put his literary talent to good use, and the place was full of pretty girls.

Like Faeli, who still hadn't arrived.

Above his head, a woodpecker was assaulting the tree he was hiding behind, digging into the fungus-infected part of the trunk. Faeli had explained the process in great detail back in the Varnhold inn. The girl was quite an expert on dendrology. Willas hoped to extend his research to trees. Based on their future conversations, he could write a monograph on the megaflora of the Stolen Lands, and force that insufferable Jubilost Narthropple to finally acknowledge his talent and acumen. Unless the rumours were true and he had been eaten by trolls somewhere in Nightvale, as he deserved.

Of course, he would mention Faeli in a footnote. And he would also mention her breasts in another work.

But until she arrived, a man had to kill time somehow.

Willas found himself absorbed in the scene in front of him, mesmerised, his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers. To this moment, he'd thought he was into buxom ladies, but he started to realise that strapping women with well-defined muscles were no less fascinating. He faintly recalled the day when he'd seen the baron's squad defeat the two zombie cyclopes hunting for his incomparably smart and delicious brain. He obviously couldn't appreciate the fight in every detail, being too scared for his life, but Darlac had made the definite impression of a destructive whirlwind. At this lifestyle, how much diamond dust could it cost her per year to maintain her flawless skin, without a single scar? Not that it wasn't worth every speck. If only he could be in the baron's place... but no. That woman was too dangerous to approach. Watching from afar was much, much better.

The woodpecker gave up on its work and flew away with an angry-sounding cry.

Faeli didn't come.

Willas didn't mind.

By the time the couple were done enjoying each other's body, and the Chronicler was done enjoying their sight, he realised he was standing ankle-deep in the mud, so his attempt to sneak away ended in a struggle with his own boots. Alas, it was a noisy activity. Finally, he even lost balance and hit the ground bottom first, his trousers getting soaked, and his backside giving him a sore reminder of those twenty switches.

Darlac, alerted by the noise, spotted him scrambling to get up. The baron followed her gaze and turned towards him. Darlac pulled her trousers up, not even bothering with her underwear, and her glowing eyes shot daggers at the Chronicler. Willas memorised the scene for later use in a novel, taking her in as she stood there, ready to unleash her righteous wrath at him, her breasts covered just enough to leave something to imagination, her neck bruised, her curls all over the place. He muttered an awkward apology and ran away clumsily, in wet trousers, carrying big lumps of mud on his boots, leaving the baron behind to bear the brunt of the General's fury.

He didn't notice the bird shit on his jacket until much later.