Thunder rumbled across Stormwatch like the upset stomach of a dragon. The miserable Princess Adora gazed glumly out across the gloomy, gray kingdom. It was fitting that there would be rain on her wedding day. The storm was still brewing, not yet come to full fruition.
"Chin up, Princess!" Said Prince Nicobar cheerfully. He took her by the chin, turned her head away from the window and back toward the mirror. Servants busied themselves about her, adjusting the white wedding dress this way and that, pinning yet more flowers and jewels into her hair, decorating her.
The crackling fireplace illuminated the Sheriff in the corner of her room, his new post of late.
Something eerie and unnameable had changed about him recently. He seemed more animated, sometimes almost alive. He had also developed the strange quirk of making an awful churning, grinding barks of laughter.
"You look lovely, Princess," he said unexpectedly from his place in the shadows. Everyone in the room gave him a weary glance. Maybe he had been enchanted with some manners by a fledgling mage. Only Nicobar seemed unbothered.
"Thank you." Adora's voice was little more than a whisper. She felt anything but lovely in the frilly, silly dress the Prince had forced her to wear. Every bit of this farce had been forced upon her, and the last person she wanted a compliment from was the Sheriff. What she felt was gaudy and bordering on inappropriate for a wedding.
She also looked utterly ridiculous in her ill-fitting dress, with it's needlessly long train and thick veil that made it almost impossible to see. At least she would not be able to see all of the guests, whose attendance was mandatory, as she marched to her doom.
It was all going the way Nicobar wanted.
Lady Hersillia was also watching the sky, while nervously referencing the heavy tomes that levetated in a bobbing circle around her. "Sire, again, I think it would be in our best interest to postpone-"
"Hersillia! I will hear notalk of this any longer. I shant warn you again." He viciously smacked a book upward, letting it hover uselessly out of reach.
The Lady looked ready to scream, but her nails dug into her palms. "Yes. Sire."
"Good, now cheer up. Why is everyone so gloomy? There's going to be a wedding for God's sake. Who can be sad at one of those? Come now, Adora, it is about time we should head to the chapel."
Lady Hersillia did not follow the procession as they filed out of the room, instead exiting down the servant's staircase. The princess was pained to watch her go, but powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop any thing as she was hurried down and out.
The castle was abuzz with activity as they passed through back corridors, taking the more secretive path to the attached chapel that overlooked the ocean. Barely able to see a few feet in front of her, Adora was could hear and smell the commotion. A feast was being prepared and she had no doubt that the cake would be taller than her. People chatted and laughed, and she was grateful that at least someone was having a good time.
The chapel was no different. Local and foreign nobility, though a distinct lack of visitors from Cinbran's home, merchants, lawyers, doctors, and anyone the Prince deemed worthy had been ordered to come. The grand chandelier above the alter was alight with ethereal, magic flame for the occasion.
Outside, there were small encampments of poor townsfolk who peered in through the stained glass windows. Inside and out, the topic of conversation was the same: the groom, or rather who was missing.
The Prince tucked Adora away, alone, in the back room of the chapel, a small and dusty space that smelled like incense and mothballs. Flickering candles were her meager light source when she removed the thick veil. Weepy eyed men and women stared down at her from their portraits on the walls, sorrowfully mourning with her. A simple wooden cross adorned the wall, and broken statues were piled up in one corner. A forlorn angel watched balefully as she paced the room, wing snapped off on both sides and propped up beside it.
Elsewhere in Stormwatch, someone else was pacing. Hurricane had worn a circle in the sand on the beach where he waited. The whipping wind made him turn his collar up and he stuffed his freezing hands into his threadbare pockets. Icy rain, like needles, stabbed at his skin.
A nasty storm was brewing. The kind that always put a pit in his stomach.
Then there came a new sound, not the crashing of the angry waves or the howling wind, but the shattering of glass. Lady Hersillia, dressed in an elegant purple gown, appeared before him in a cloud of green smoke.
"Sorry to be running so late, Calden," she said between coughs as she waved the smoke from her face. "Transportation pocket spells are not the safest form of magic by a long shot, but rather useful in a pinch."
Hurricane didn't say anything, just regarded her in the cool, comfortable silence they had found together. Like the silence of the library where they had spent much time together during suitor events. She gave him a tender smile, easing the knot in his stomach a little.
"You know I hate to leave Adora alone, especially on a day like today, but dire circumstances call for dire responses. The Prince is risking the life of everyone in the kingdom for this sham of a wedding. Thank you for coming on such short notice. This storm was unexpected, to say the least."
"Of course, my lady. Anything for you." Then realizing what he had said, quickly added, "you're helping us out too. You don't feel guilty, then? For aiding the bad guys?"
She sighed heavily, but straightened her shoulders. "I do not. I've only barely helped anyway."
"But you might have ruined a royal wedding."
"Pity." He couldn't help but smile, despite the circumstances. "For now, you and I have far bigger things to worry about. Time for a magic lesson, Cal."
Meanwhile, at the doors to the chapel a troupe of, unexpected, masked actors had rumbled up to the doors. Each one was dressed more ridiculously than the last. They brought along a cart full to bursting with props, costumes and set pieces. Two guards were arguing with each other about said troupe when a foreboding figure emerged from the shadows.
"What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?" Asked the Sheriff, silencing the argument. The guards turned reluctantly to him, visibly shrinking under his gaze.
"He says," started the older guard, pointing hotly to a younger, freckled guard. "That these 'actors' are invited to the wedding, but I says I ain't heard a word about it."
The Sheriff turned his ever burning attention to the little guard and asked, with something like curiosity, "aren't you supposed to be guarding the Princess?"
"Yes I am." Nolan tried to sound intimidating too, but was clearly shaking in his boots. "I am trying to return to my post, but I was asked first to deliver this list to the door keeper. It has some last minute changes from the Prince."
"Let me see."
Nolan handed over his scroll. The Sheriff looked it over as the onlookers shuffled and shared anxious glances.
"Who sent you?" The enforcer asked.
"Lady Hersillia, under orders of the Prince."
"This is an official document. Allow the group entrance. The Prince has many entertainments planned and will be more frustrated to miss one or have them start late. Remember that we are on an incredibly tight schedule."
The older guard furrowed his bushy eyebrows and frowned, but turned aside to allow the actors to enter the church. It wasn't his wedding. What did he care if a group of ragged, unimpressive hooligans put on a terrible performance? The sooner all of the guests were accounted for, the sooner he could get out of the gale. Though, he did feel better when the Sheriff slunk away muttering something about mages.
The little guard left too, but the older guard was left confused by the route he took. Nolan did not head inside, instead taking off toward the town at full tilt. 'Kids these days,' the older gaurd thought scornfully, forgetting his own far gone youth. 'Can't find any reliable help anymore.'
The troupe of strange, masked actors made their rumbling way through the packed chapel. They garnered murmurs from the overstuffed pews as their caravan trundled by.
The Count too was watching them from his vantage at the alter. He was dressed in the finest ceremonial clothing that his servants had brought. Silken robes enveloped him, his hands and head adorned with jewels. In his sleeves was the ceremonial knife, used to cut a ribbon that would bind their hands.
The whole affair was terribly exhausting.
The actors were not any kind of break from boredom for him, but rather yet another in Nicobar's unending cavalcade of pleasures. Every moment since he had arrived in this carnival of a kingdom had been filled with one needless distraction after another. Didn't Nicobar have better things to do? Wasn't there important work to get done?
Oh, how Cinbran longed to be back home, where there was order and peace and quiet He tired of parties and frivolity. If Stormwatch was under his rule, it would have none of the problems it currently faced. It made the Count itchy to be in such a dysfunctional place. He hoped that his bride-to-be did not expect him to keep her so entertained when they returned to his home.
Princess Adora was a fine enough bride. She was pretty, well mannered, educated, and from a good blood line. Though, she was free spirited beyond what he found proper in a lady, he would simply allow her her own estate to do with as she pleased, within reason. Then he would get about his business in the capital and visit with her when the work permitted. He would need an heir after all.
No, the true value of their union was in the trade agreement that would be established through their marriage. The Princess had very little claim to the throne of Stormwatch, but it was a claim nonetheless. The arrangement would open his dutchy up to not only Stormwatch, but beyond it's ocean and on to even wealthier territories. Mercantile agreements guaranteed that he would yield profit regardless.
All he needed to do was survive one more ostentatious party, then he would not have to think about fun and games and foolishness again for a long, long, long time.
So, it was with great disinterest that he watch the motley and colorful crew as they drew near to the dais. An enormous, hulking man delicately pushed a wheeled chair that held another, smaller masked actor. Scarves and scraps and sheets were strewn about, props placed, sets situated, and the actors took their places.
The huge man wheeled the chair to the side and lay a book across the occupant's lap. The person in the chair cleared their throat, but no one other than the Count and the rather weary looking priest heard the sound. Then, the larger man cleared his throat, which captured the attention of everyone.
"Good day, ladies an' gents! The People's Players are proud to bring ya' a one of a kind performance today. It's about..." He stooped down to the person in the chair and said more quietly, "Oy, what's it about again?"
The person responded, whispering something unintelligible.
"Right, right. It's about our very own Prince Nicobar! A little tale we've crafted in his honor about him getting' a set of fancy, new clothes!"
Nicobar, from his seat in his bespoke balcony, watched on with amusement. A play all about him was a marvelous surprise; he only wished that he had thought of it first. Still, he required everything go right today. Time was short and his Sheriff was the key to ensuring that the day went smoothly. Nicobar wasn't certain where his metal enforcer was, though he was likely making his final rounds before the ceremony commenced.
The Prince was rather displeased with him for allowing Grimholt to escape, but he trusted the Sheriff that the outlaw was too injured to show himself any time soon. Once the Princess was halfway around the world, and no longer his problem, Nicobar doubted that the bandit would have any bite left in his braggadocios bark.
The whelp was also drained of more than half of his life force, and the Sheriff had all of that energy stored inside him. He was more powerful than ever, and taking what little remained in Sylven would be easy. Then there would only be one more problem to solve: Finbar.
The actors started up a bright, if unprofessional, song and signaled the beginning of their rousing tale. Nicobar smiled to himself and settled in for his show. Who could be unhappy at a wedding?