Romeo's songbook

[Maffa]

So... let's make things straight, sė? I am not a bard.

I only sing for the company, and to make people laugh, sė? Just to have a good time.

Bards can sing, and play, and usually are broke on the hearts and coin purse, and I am not, and hope will never be any of that!

Ahahahahahaha!

What I do is standing around them, and listening to their songs, and copying them, and sing them worse than they can for my drinking buds and girlfriends, sė?

This is all there is to it.

[Maffa]

So this song you heard me singing a week or so ago, it was written by a pal of mine. Claims to be a bard [meaningful expression], and if we measure his competence by being heartbroken and toothless, well he was a decent bard then ahahahahaha!

Thing is, he wrote it for a girl, Fiammetta she is called, she only met her at Fifth Day in the parish they both go three or four times, and he stalks her at home, he sees her a couple of times more when she gets out her balcony in the evening to get a bit of fresh air. Never spoke a word to her, she was always among her family, a good family, solid money. He asks around, and finds some things. Sixteen of age, betrothed since she was ten to a man twenty years her senior.

Is this any problem for him? No! Ahahahahahahahah!

Beh, he decided Fiammetta was THE ONE.

So he asks me for a favour to play the lute out in the shadows while he sings her a serenade under her balcony in Piazza Grande sė? And of course I accept, I mean, how fun is that! So! That night, we sneak under her balcony when we knew she was about to get out, I start strumming, and he starts singing. And all was well and all was good, until ihihihihihih... until... ihihihihihihih... until he hits the verse where he says... he says that it only gets out at night, sė?

And.... oh Madre Santissima... and she... she... hollers with the power of a dozen greengrocers "Who... who do you take me for?!?" AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! and storms inside ahahahahahaha ahahahahahaha ... and my pal... is flabberghasted... I try to keep... keep playing with... tears in my eyes... like now... and he keeps singing but.. she hears nothing of  it... and before we hit... the last verse... oh Ezra... scusa... let me wipe my eyes... gosh... we hear... the main gate slamming open and... half a dozen voices ahahahahahahaha her father, older brother and two cousins plus a couple servants got out with sticks... ahahahahahaha... we run away in an alley but they see him ahahahahaha they made sure... made sure he never gets any closer to their mansion by means of a few choice words, and more bludgeoning and kicking... AHAHAHAHAHAHA... I kept laughing as I wheelbarrowed him... ahahahahaha... to the healers... ahahahaha

Oh Ezra... so much fun!

He never dared to look at her, she married the old man as she should, and every time the tale comes up he acts all bashful and prays me to stop ahahahahaha!

[Maffa]

When we saw Brunello with her new girl Rosetta, we feared it could be a shipwreck. Rosetta was too much: too beautiful, too talented, too young, and slightly too smart for him. Not good.

When they started with the silly nicknames, the fear turned in certainty: it was not matter of "if" anymore. It was matter of "when". We saw them together, as they laughed and closed in themselves in that dirty shack, forgetting about us and the rest of the world.

Brunello forgot the rules of the game. He wasn't playing anymore, he was serious. His reason flew far far away, in the depth of the Mists to Her Shelter, singing with Her angels and saints la la la la la la.

We sat and waited.

When I finally took upon myself to go at Brunello's, what I saw was gruesome. The floor was filled rubbish everywhere, rats, and above all a sea of empty bottles. Before looking for him, I checked the bottles, and my heart sank. Most of it was Ghastrian whiskey and Barovian tsuika: that idiot was trying to kill himself in the most pitiful way.

I finally found him in the space between his cot and the wall, sloshed, unshaven, slumped like a thrown away doll.

"Nello! Oh Nello!" I said "What's this? What have you done to yourself!" I grabbed him, shaking his shoulders.

"Meo... she's gone" he murmured "She up and gone, Meo... gone... ... gone... " His eyes getting wet again.

"And so? Why are doing this to yourself?" I said, shaking him some more "Oh Nello, look at you! Look at this place!! Were you trying to have it done with? Oh Nello! Wake up!"

"Meo..." he started sobbing "Meo... you do not understand... she was the One... she was..."

I tried to look into his eyes "Of course she was the One. She was the smart One, the brunette One, the wealthy One, the cant-drink-too-much One... you know the game, sė? Oh Nello! Sė? Answer me please?"

He weakly tried to shake his head, bobbing it onto the wall and leaving dirty stripes on the peeling plaster.
"Meo... you do not understand... I loved her... Rosetta... Rosetta..." he started sobbing "my little princess... my love..." He was sobbing pathetically.

"Wh- Wh- Wh- WHAT HAS LOVE TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS!!!" I exploded "NELLO! OH NELLO! WAKE THE HELL UP! LOOK WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF!" I shook him up some more, more for rage than anything "Remember the rules of the game, Nello! REMEMBER - THE - GAME! We love them ALL! They are all the ONES!"

He let himself be shook, he had no strength left in himself.
"What do I do Meo... she is gone... Rosetta... with another... I have nothing left Meo... nothing..."

"Uuuuuuh... Ezra give me patience, because if You give me strength I swear I am going to choke this IMBECILE WITH THESE NOODLE ARMS OF MINE! You have nothing, you say? YOU -  HAVE - NOTHING? Nello! Oh Nello! Look at me, you toothless cretin. Who am I? Do you remember who I am? Do you remember who we were? Eh? Do you remember the first time you told us about this Rosetta? - Oi boys, I caught a new bird, you gotta see her, she's beautiful, you should see her tits, her booty, lips ga ha ha ha- You lost yourself in the game, you forgot the game, you forgot US, your boys, and shut yourself with that bird in this feverish dream of love, in this... shack... We haven't seen you in any of our joints! What have you done since? How did you get coin to get by? Once you burned through her stash you should have bailed! And what about you? Were you too busy to provide to yourself? To groom yourself properly? Look at you! LOOK - AT - YOU!"

I grabbed his face and lifted it to face mine.
"You dropped your friends for a bird, Nello! You left pleasure for an illusion, for... ... happiness. Nello! OH NELLO! Happiness doesn't exists! It's a lie, an illusion! There is only pleasure! We band together, you, me and the boys, and we BITE at life HARD, as if it was an apple! The most delicious apple there is! We are a crew, sė? Sė?"

He finally looked up at me, and the shadows of a soul seemed to appear if briefly in his wet, bulging, dead fish eyes of his.
"What do I do now, Meo?" he pleaded.

"What to do, eh? I'm gonna tell you what to do." I helped him sitting on the dirty bed, and took a stool for myself "You do as she did. The things she took from you, now she makes money with, sė? Found herself a protector, you said. Bene. You do the same. Now you come with me to the brothel, Nello. You wash, you shave, you get laid. Standards, Nello. Standards." He weakly nodded. "Then, you get a room by the Three Hens, you lock yourself in, your get yourself a quill, a sheet of paper, and your lute, and write a song about it, and don't get out until you are done. You still claim to be a bard, right? Right?" He nodded once more "Then be a bard. Do your thing. Write your sadness away. Make money out of it. Make money out of HER, she is doing the same with you anyway" i said. He nodded some more. "Just do your thing."



And Brunello did. He washed, he shaved, he got a haircut, and a shag or three. Then he wrote a song, and he sang it at the Three Hens. He cried, we laughed. He got payed, we spent it all in food, wine and signorine of negotiable affection. Then we got to the other taverns and brothels and did the same. Incidentally, as someone made me notice recently, about the three questions in his song, their answers are probably no, no, and no. He received compliments and accolades, and slowly, but surely, got onto his feet again.

Brunello got on with his life.
Rosetta got on with hers.

And this is all there is to know about love.

Little Princess

Saw you wearing a wonderful dress
With ribbons, and laces, it was red
You were with some new friends
And you were speaking mordentish
Or so it seemed...

And it seems just yesterday we met
Only yesterday... or... is it?

And i loved you so much
And you loved me as well
Now we dont, no, not anymore
but you, sometimes,
do you ever still think of me?

Little princess, when we were together
We dined only on bread and a few cherries
We just lived off kisses and caresses
And you only sang and cried for me
and our songbird sang with you
Little princess loves only his king...

And i loved you so much
And you loved me as well
Now we dont, no, not anymore
but you, absent mindedly,
do you ever talk about me?

Little songbird, who are you waiting for?
She wont come, and your cage is open
She flew away, so fly yourself
Fly and sing, dont cry alone at home
Fly and find a better mistress
Better, and worthier of your songs...

And i loved you so much
And you loved me as well
Now we don't, no, not anymore
but you, above thought,
do you ever call my name?

[Maffa]

Sometimes I forget how long something takes to come to fruition, but the longer one waits, the sweetest is the harvest! I really had to think it through to recollect all what happened because it took years in the making... All that plotting, pulling, pushing, all the expenses... years and years of methodical planning. All for a mere moment, fifteen minutes of triumph.

Was it worth it?

Ooooh, sė. Sė sė sė, a thousand times sė!

So this happened right at the end of the unfortunate adventure of Ferruccio with Fiammetta. As i was cartwheeling Ferruccio to the parish chapel, trying to navigate the dark streets at night through the tears of my laughter, I realised that Ferruccio was calling... was groaning for my attention.

"No... not... the chapel... please... Don Furio... Donna Franza... I beg..."

That was... understandable. Don Furio and Donna Franzskeska or however you would like to spell her name, are the wardens of our neighbour parish, collectively known as the Chapel two¹. They know every one, and it would have taken a minute to figure out what had happened, and surely the next day, they would had lit a fire that could take months to subside. Beside the scandal, the few seconds it would have taken them to heal his wounds and fractures we -both- would have lost in a massive earful which would have not seen the end of for that night. We knew the earful had to come, sooner or later, but... better later.

The choice then fell on a Lamordian sawbones, herr Koenraad Hoefsmeden, but known around as Corradino Taglia-e-cuci, or Nip-and-tuck as you would say in common, sė? He arrived from Lamordia, Don Corradino, well past his forties. White, wet and bloated like a drowned man, his hair so light blonde it looked white, and sparse on that large head of his. Not a good looking man. But, as one would have it, he made himself a reputation for the man to go when the wardens were not an option, and the herbalists wouldn't do.

At first, he fought against the natural reserve of the citizenry, and the open hostility of the Chapel two with quiet working. He kept his head down and bone after bone, suture after suture, he made himself a reputation as an understanding person one could go to for special issues, since he was known to be a one of very few words (which is not a problem: we Borcans can speak for anyone else in the Core).

We thought he mellowed a bit when finally he managed to marry. A recently toothless family couldn't believe their luck when Don Corradino asked for their daughter's hand, waiving the dowry: even with the thunderous protests of the Chapel two, for giving away a good daughter of Ezra to a godless outlander from a godless land, the dowry money was badly needed, and they waved their precious Francesca goodbye, and good luck.

Francesca did what a very young Borcan lady is supposed to. She became the mistress of her house, and managed the (quite considerable, for some reason) estate of Don Corradino. But she was, understandably, bored to tears. Now nearing his fifties, Don Corradino had no more power to his loins, certainly, and that young Levkarestian flower was doomed to wilt untouched.

And that was her destiny, for sure, until we, me and Ferruccio, finally got to don Corradino's. We were confident to find if not a compassionate heart, at least a silent mouth. But not! While he was doing his bloody job, don Coradino would not shut up! About the yonker people zetting in troubell, and doink recklez zings at nigh, and drinkink and kamblink and zingink and vhorink... and he kept on and on! but about all, what I found particularly effective in hurting my own very soul, sucking the shine off the sun in my heart, was his tone of voice. He was not as fiery as Don Furio, nor as dry and authoritative as Donna Franza... no no no. Don Corradino had this tone deaf droning that never ceased, never an inflection raising or falling, like the most boring summer drizzle that wouldn't decide to either go full shower, or just stop. And this went on, and on, and on. Were they minutes? Hours? Weeks? Who can tell?

Later, we discovered he started doing this because he wanted to "clean up his game" with the wardens. His reputation of "the sympathetic friend of sinners" has gone too far for someone wishing to mesh in with the Levkarestian good society, and marrying one good daughter from a good family was only the first step for changing his colors completely; and we were one of the first of his victims on his road to societal success.

As Ferruccio still had his cast and walking stick on, and lighter, much lighter on coins, he, me and the boys decided that don Corradino was in for some trouble.

And some trouble we manged to find him, given enough time.

Vengeance is a dish best served cold.






¹ Don Furio was said to have turned bitter because his family could never have afforded (or so they claimed) to have him promoted to toret; Donna Franza, a bitter-born Falkovnian woman, was old and wrinkly and used to bark at people as if she were a sheepdog and his parishoners her own flock made of real sheep; she claimed she devoted herself totally to Ezra and that there was no room for no man in her life, but many think she was just too ugly and harsh to become anyone's wife. Their sermons were filled with the same fiery words full of calamity. Once, Feruccio mistook for his flask his normal sangiovese for that plum-based paint remover that Barovians drink in order to forget they indeed live in Barovia, and almost drunk himself to death during our drinking game at Fifth day Service when Don Furio got a string of "legion - death - sin - death - sin - sin - legion" in three consecutive sentences; we had to rush him out the chapel mid service to his aunt's herbalist shop.

[Maffa]

Ca'Hoefsmeden -sheesh!- Ca'Nipantuck had a servant.

She was young-ish, petite, brown, shy, soft spoken, smelled of attics, walked shuffling her feet quickly in small steps. Silent and unconspicuous as a church mouse, with a mouse name as well, Mimė, also went every day to the chapel early in the mornings to say her prayers before starting her day of toils. Her real name was forgotten, housewives sustained she was dropped on the stairs of the rectory and bestowed an embarassing name by the old chapel wardens such as Misericordia or Mist-bless, but it could have been Minestrone for what was worth knowing. Sė, she had been taught housekeeping and indentured away to some mansion, and that was all there was to know. She was not a person worth knowing, in people's opinion. I mean, who cares.

Beh, Marcello cared. When Marcello heard from me and Ferruccio what happened, he made that wicked grin that would have earned a new moniker years later, when we banned him from our crew. At the time, he was still known as Marcello Sevenbeauties, because he looked like Her Mists bestowed him with all was appealing to women. Good looking, with good manners, fake as a harlot's compliment, instinctively knew what pleased his listener the most, and he would say and do whatever to get to the point, consequences be damned, for him and for all those involved.

I cant say I am the most forward looking person in the Core, Ezra is my witness, but me... we all except him, we seek the complicity of at least the other person, and the consequences are each own's I guess. I strive to love them all, that's what i am trying to say. He only loved himself, Marcello the Knave.

We didn't know what was about to happen, so when when Marcello offered his help, we welcomed it eagerly. After a month or so, he comes back with some juicy informations. Sė, Donna Francesca was young, and beautiful, as he confirmed with his two eyes from inside the mansion. Donna Francesca was not allowed to leave the mansion, not even to go to Fifth Day, because don Corradino thought it was a waste of time and money for the ceremony dresses, with all that white silks and ribbons, and most importantly above it all, even if never uttered, it was he knew he was old and ugly¹, and he knew she was young and beautiful, and he bloody well knew what could have happened if he dared getting the leash only a tiny bit longer.

He learned that Francesca tried everything she could to escape her confinement, and that threatened Corradino to involve the Chapel two if he didn't allow her to attend the Fifth. Corradino, cold and damp as a zombie in a spring night in Barovia, simply converted one storage room inside their mansion in a private chapel, and paid tithe to Donna Franza to come and relieve Francesca with whatever soul burn she might have felt. He paid the dour, and female!, warden a generous sum, and managed to chain Francesca down with yet another link, while improving his standing with the Church.

We came to know the price of all this information, and what happened later. For a time, Mimė's cheeks were rosier, and her expression softer, even, dare I say?, happier. After all this affair blew up, and then hushed down, Mimė was quickly released from her indenture. She left for Port-a-Lucine, where a cousin found her a place in the attic of a tall building, and a workplace with a wage. It was said that her paper flowers could earn her some coin, and, beh, it was in Port, so all in all she was living the dream! Also, the rumor that she left with child was unfounded: later on, the cousin that went with her to Port denied there were any around when she came back. It could have gone wrong in so many ways, and we and Marcello had a bad fight over it and parted ways, but the Great Scheme mended it, so all's well what ends well.

But be as it may, we needed to find a way for Ferruccio to meet with Francesca. The occasion came when Donna Franza came down ill that winter. That's when we, me and Ferruccio, stole some garbs and disguised him as a old, female warden, and me -the less able to keep his face straight- as an initiate escorting him... her.






¹ a church woman that held it against Corradino once said he was so ugly he was only four pustules away from being exorcised as Legion. All the present laughed, apparently even don Furio which at the time hated him with a fire of a hundred pyres.

[Maffa]

The local drinking champion at the Rosebud's Thorn was a young templar named Scylla.

Scylla looked like a five foot tall halfling, or... beh... just a farmer girl I suppose. Round face, freckled and tanned, red bristly hair, easy to laugh, hard to knock down. She knew all the dirty jokes, and made some up herself ("how to you prevent a warden to going to the tavern? you tell them the toret in there is already disorderly drunk AHAHAHAHAHA" *hand slams onto the table*)

One night, we were at the same table and she was laughing the laughs of someone that doesn't fear competition, and as she bent back to better project that famous grandposing triumphant laughter of hers, she knocked a tray with roasted pork a waitress was carrying behind her, which resulted in the roast being flipped over on her head down to her tabard, totally covering her in oil, grease, flying pieces of potatoes, chunks of meat and rosemary bunches. The final result was so comical and funny that it took forever for all the people at the Arm and Shield to start breathing again from laughter, and some more was needed for Scylla, who was trying to eat pieces of pork from her armor through her tears of laughter (tried to grab a potato from her cleavage, she hard stopped laughing for a second. Had to try, but I lived to tell). It was when we finally managed to help her clean up herself that she said that the church ladies would bring the clean laundry the next morning. That was the cue we, me and Brunello, were waiting for.

We knew donna Franza was bedridden ill. And we knew we could get some tunics from the Rectory where the templars and wardens lived. Getting in the women's section of the rectory was hard, but we managed it, and we grabbed two random outfits, one green and one white. We decided we would play the part of a warden, Brunello, and an initiate, me. I was too chuckly to play a female initiate, so I just went for a male initiate with an ill fitting tunic. Brunello was a nervous wrack: after all only a few months have passed since Fiammetta's relatives tried to teach him right from wrong via means of thick sticks, and even though he did not obviously soak the lesson, he didn't feel the need for a cram session this soon. Seeing him with make up on and tits made of rags, shaking like a virgin at first night is a sight that will be forever burned in my mind.

So we got to Corradino's mansion and we had Mimė open the street gate for us. We walked past the servants, head low, him white with powder and nervousness, me red with the giggles. We finally made it to the makeship chapel Corradino made built for his wife Francesca. Since I was obviously a man, I had to wait outside, so I stood guard at the door with a rosary armed old maid, and Brunello made his way inside, alone together with Francesca. I didn't hear any screams for the first minutes, which would have been our cue to make ourselves scarce as quickly as possible. As a matter of fact, it went on for quite a long time, so long that my funny bone relaxed and anxiety was mounting. Be as it may, after a while Brunello got out the room, nodded me still with his head down and we quickly shuffled out the mansion before Corradino or any of his henchmen could see us.
Once on safe grounds, Brunello was clearly beaming. It had gone really well. Donna Francesca was really starving for any emotions, really, and the sight of a daring suitor dressed as an old female warden was the first spoonful of a badly needed medicine for the one and only ailment of her soul, that Donna Franza couldn't possibly quell.

Brunello was a gentleman, as am I, so I didn't ask and he didn't tell too much. They established ways to exchange messages via Mimė, and they started flirting with each other that way, their lust for one another mounting as donna Franza fought back her illness and came back to her duties. Brunello was getting impatient though, as he feared Francesca would grow content with this letter exchange and would not push for the next step.

Weeks became months, months almost one year. They kept writing each other like that, they gotten more affectionate and also bickered, as bored lovers do. But finally, the chance to meet outside the mansion and the fearsome grip of Corradino arrived. There was a new stapan in Levkarest, the older one jubilated by Sef donna Boritsi without many regards. The family ought to demonstrate their power and prestige, so they organized a luxurious party to which the best and brightest of the town was invited. My family, as a notable mercantile institution of renown, had been surely secured a place, but the same could not be told for my friends, toothless commoners of no fame nor fortune. When Brunello heard from Francesca that she would be allowed to attend, we devised a plan to get both him and Marcello in and to separate Francesca from Corradino.

[Maffa]

The stapan's mansion is smack in the center of Levkarest.

The new stapan's family spared no nightshades to make an impression, and the old building was gleaming: candles, shiny drapes, mirrors and water displays made day out of the night. Alchemists were called to work together with the cooks in order to create sculptures out of ice to adorn the center-tables. Musicians offered entertainment in several angles of the center yard and ball saloon, offering a cacophony of different styles and musics. Carriages and coaches were lined up to unload their cargo of walking velvets and silks: the best and brightest of Levkarest and countryside gentry flocked as one to the mundane event of the year.

House Lascaris was also invited, of course. My father don Alfonso, my older half brother Fabrizio, my half sister Isabella with her husband Michiel, and my uncle Saverio with my cousin Mercuzio. And, beh, me. We had to fight in order to find a suitable tailor, since all the best were booked months in advance, and power play was in act to prevent rival families to access the best services and materials in time for the party. My sister's shenanigans made it even worse, if possible: if I barely bear her most of the times, her tantrums scaled over another level, and she moved back to the familiar mansion weeks before the party to "better prepare for the event", or to better propagate her crazies and affect as many people as possible.

But, as Ezra would have had it, we all got our getups fitted as custom demanded. What we needed were attendants, and thus I managed to sneak Brunello and Marcello in. We stashed a couple of my old outfits in a bag, and they got to change as soon they got inside. We spread out, looking for Corradino and Francesca.

Marcello had the luck to find them first, Francesca close and guarded by Corradino, them alone with a glass of Dementlieuse champagne each. Instead of coming and looking for us, he, the knave, started chatting with a girl close by to Corradino's ear, introducing himself as a cousin and person close to the new stapan first.

From here on, i lost track of them: while i was looking for Corradino, I found something much more valuable and... sė. ... ... Anyway, this is what I have been told by them afterwards.

Marcello came arm under Brunello's arm laughing and bantering just in front of Corradino. Corradino, more than willing to improve his social standing, went to Marcello and Brunello, greeting them as friends: not many were still willing to chat with the heathen Corradino, and seeing Brunello for him was a goddess-send. Francesca paled when he saw Brunello again: she didn't expect him to come and seeing him amiably chatting with her husband caused her to feel quite unwell. But so engrossed was Corradino of Marcello, that for once he completely disregarded her.

The music started to mount inside, as the ball room was getting readied for the dances. Champagne was flowing like water off a fountain, and everyone was tipsy at best. Not Brunello, though, that managed to stay behind Corradino's shadow. Marcello was keeping Corradino both entertained and "well hydrated". And so, it finally happened, when after a well made joke from Corradino (never heard before, nor after) Francesca mumbled something not feeling well, answered by Corradino in a bad way that basically shusshed amd shooed away. Marcello was all too happy to oblige helping Francesca upstairs, and ... the rest is poetry.

What could have been the beginning of their love story turned out to be their first and last encounter. She was too scared of the whole situation, and she also confessed that Corradino was more a dangerous man than everyone knew. There were things happening in his cellar laboratory that... she didn't want to risk angering him. This was her life, thuse the Grand Scheme willed, and she surrendered herself to it.

And this would be the last of this story, with all the party goers shuffling back to their coaches and mansions, if it weren't for something that happened the early morning after, just a few hours after the end of the party, and this was the talk that competed with the grandiose part the stapan threw.
Some unknown hand, most likely pushed by a slandering plot, hang a beautiful buck's head on Corradino's mansion. The largest antlers it had, maybe to the curious unlooker there were even more than normally would have, and the most serene of expressions. Truly a majestic sight. Under the buck head, however, painted directly on the building face, was a huge sign, in red.

CORNUTO

As for me... I will remember that night for the night I met Giulia. But, that's another story. Probably... I wont even tell it.

Let's drink champagne
let me toast to the meeting
with you, but you already had a partner
Remember?
we all got an invitation that night
Everyone was at the stapan's

And so the ball
was just at its beginning
But your head was already spinning
to me, there was no other
in my eyes, there was only you...

If you want
I can come with you
the silliest of the excuses
just to be alone, me and you
And then, we throw away all doubts and all reserves
and we love each other where we were
For the first time
and... the last...

Champagne
for the sweetest of secrets
and to us, the most forbidden of fruits
alas, all that remains to me is an empty glass
a keepsake i could just maybe toss
away...

I know, I do really know
that to you all I must look like a madman
yes, I know
but please, just let me raise this toast alone
to the end of a forbidden love
so, please hostess
Champagne...

[Maffa]

Dark.

Dark.

Dark.

The darkness expands the pain on the back, the skin bruised where the belt hit, over and over. It pulses, like heat. The darkness makes everything worse.

Dark.

Dark.

Dark.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

Where is father? Papā! Papā! I am sorry! Let me out!

No matter how loud it might be, the voice is lost in the darkness.

Little fists banging on a too thick wooden door make a muffled sound.

Isa?! Isa!! Why cant you help me, Isa?!

"Sorry Memeo! I can't I can't! Papā will punish me again if I do!"

Fabri! Fabri! Let me out! I beg you! Open this door!

"Memeo, I can't! Papā told you you need to learn to stay still! Why can't you stay still?"

Why can't you stay still?
Why can't you pay attention?
Why do you interrupt the grownups when they talk?
Why do you fidget when interrogated?
Why do you hum songs under your breath?
Why can't you sit composed at dinner?
Why do you suddenly jump or run around, without a reason?

"You are made wrong, Romeo.
The belt will teach you."

"Your head is wrong, Romeo.
Some time alone in the dark will help you reflect, and focus."

The voice is smiling. There is no kindness in that smile.

I don't want to stay alone.
I need people.
I need people around me.
I don't want to stay alone.
I am sorry. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to do it.

Not alone... not alone... not alone... not alone...

[Maffa]

A lonely figure enters from a side door of Ste. Mére des Larmes. He takes off his colorful coat and leans it on his arm, to reveal a candid white shirt that matches with his equally white trousers. The steps of his leather shoes echo trough the broken naves of the decrepit cathedral, walls that are more used to the quiet shuffling of sandals. He avoids stepping by the central nave, keeping himself on the left side, making then a turn to find a small, unassuming side chapel, enlightened by the sun filtered by the colored glass of the large window.
The mix of cobalt blue of the side and the white of the armored crying figure in the central piece make for an almost enthralling play of lights on the rough old tiles on the ground. The words written in white gleam in contrast on the black of the cartouche framing the figure: "Ne Pleure Plus, Car Je Pleurerai Pour Toi", cry no more, for I shall cry for you.

He finds a seat on the front row, placing his coat next to him on the pew. The deserted side chapel make noises of its own: clinking, soft rumble of crumbling detritus somewhere up in the ceiling, the muffled distant noise of the busy streets below in the City that Never Sleeps (even when it really should sometimes).

He stays still, his eyes unfocused in a nondescript point between the altar and the stained glass, almost as stunned. Then his hand moves, mechanically marking a five folded gesture over his chest, ending with him kissing the shield shaped pendant on his necklace, like he has done every fifth day of week since his young age in Levkarest.

He then joined his hands in prayer, and begins muttering.

"Madre Santissima.
Madre Dolorosissima.
Hope for the Hopeless.
Source of every blessing.
Succor of the mortal.
Refuge of the sinner.
Your light is like a sword that cleaves the darkness.
Ezra, Our guardian in the Mists, please, heed my prayer.

...

I... am getting lost.

My heart is numb, at days, and other days I feel it is about to burst.

My mind is leading me in places I do not want to go. Makes me do things I am not ready to do. Everything will be fine, it says, I know better. Eventually things will pan out.

My heart is rebelling. Doesn't want to let go. Doesn't want to let anything go. Never alone, it says, never alone, we will end up being alone again. Grab, grab everything, hold fast.

My mind is cutting all the loose ends off. Cut your losses, the old man taught us, the lesson is etched in the flesh. They didn't work out for us, can't you see? They weren't there when you needed them. Secrets and lies. They didn't find a use for all that you gave. Eventually all that outpour on nothing would have ended in rot. You are tired. You do not have the strength to pursue anyone forever. No one is worth that much. Let me lead. Let them go. We have things to do. Places to be. New people to meet. Just let them go.

My heart fears we will become like my father, in time. Cold. Detached. Calculating. Manipulating. Uninterested in anything but himself.

My mind says no, never. Never like him, never ever. This is only for now, we gave out too much, too soon. Cut the losses, cut the loose ends.

My heart is muted. Looks at what it could have been, probably in a make believe fantasy detached from reality, so much happiness, so much bliss. Looks at the chances we would die in the near future, lost somewhere no one will look, alone, in the dark, again. It is scared. It is hopeful. Maybe. Maybe.

My mind manages the mask. Romeo the funny guy. Romeo the entertainer. Romeo the beguiler. Make us laugh, Romeo. Sure. Make us roll our eyes. Of course. Make us feeling important, looked at, valued, worthy, beautiful. I am ready. This is our place. This is our job. This is what we are good at. Come, we need to go.

...

This is not a prayer, this is a madman rant...
What am i even doing...
I am sorry, Ezra. I do not even know what I came here for.

...

Please protect my soul, and the souls of those I love and care about.
Victor. Stella. Roxana. Solana. Marcelia. Warden Danika. Sentire Costinus. Bastion Caille. Praesidia Tiepolo.

Deliver us from the Mists of Death, and may Your plan be realized in the Grand Scheme.

...

uhh...

Amen?"

[Maffa]

"Madre Santissima.
Madre Dolorosissima.
Hope for the Hopeless.
Source of every blessing.
Succor of the mortal.
Refuge of the sinner.
Your light is like a sword that cleaves the darkness.
Ezra, Our guardian in the Mists, please, heed my prayer.

... So... the time has come. I am leaving for the war.

I search the same fear I have in the eyes of those I meet. Those that will come with. Those that will stay.
I am not happy when I dont see it. It is as if they lack to understand what i know.
And when I see it... I do not know what to do. My instinct would be to reassure, but i cannot. So, what's better?

In the end, there are plenty of people I failed to say goodbye to. So many, so many. I thought they would come at least to see me off, but... so be it. Maybe they are right, and I am wrong. All this might as well be easier than a trip down a crypt. All these fantasies of flying balls of fire, hails of hundreds of arrows darkening the skies, cries and death and silence and smoldering holes in the ground are just... fantasies.

I wish i had a mother to say goodbye to. A mother that would have seen me off when I left Levkarest first, and now... Some say that a mother is every child's first love, and that love was negated to me. A hole in my soul that I tirelessly try to fill, hope against hope. It's so hard. it's so tiring.

So Ezra, Madre Santissima, Madre Dolorosissima. I will say my goodbye to you, here in front of Your Stained Glass, then. The wardens say those tears are for us all, and so... I will take a few for me, a Mother in pain for Her son leaving for war.

Farewell, Mother. May we see each other at Your Shelter, if the Grand Scheme wills it.

Amen."

[Maffa]

[the letter is written on poor grade paper. there is a hole in one part of it, either scrapped or pierced throu. the calligraphy is irregular, wavy and not uniform]

Dearest [redacted],

I am sorry if i am writing you this sorry excuse of a letter, but I am of little means here and I have to make do. At the moment, I am writing on my bedroll, with a plank balanced on my knees.

The weave of the Grand Scheme is only known to Ezra, and the Mists of dDeath. If dest(i)ny wishes, we shall meet again under more favourable circumstances. [...]

We have assaulted a fortified position, and we have built a camp. I was able to distinguish myself by thwarting an attempt to ambush us with black powder by dousing the barrels with Malaturno, of all things! (it was the thing i had ready!) and it would have allowed safe passage if it werent for [paper scraped off]ted the enemy arcanist that blew the rock with magic!

Now our camp is suf(f)ering assaults by the hands of sithican mercenaries. We are holding up, but... people are dying. Good people. We have buried 8 so far. And thrice the sithican numbers. Half elves, in search of a country that wont disparage them for what they are: the fruit of love between men and elves. This is hard to swallow. The smell of black powder is strong, and the acidic chemicals of burning bombs lingering in the air is overpowering at times.

I dont know when this letter will reach you. I sent it with the bodies of the dead being carted off back to Dementlieu. A day? A week? Never?

Matters not. I will keep your letter with me at all times.

If you need to reach to me, write to the consulate at my name. They might be able to bring it to me when the supplies come forth.


Be safe

R(the signature is strange and barely readable)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[The letter is also of poor quality. Ink blots are present here and there, the paper slightly damp. It's written both sides. The calligraphy is not pretty, and it gets smaller by the end of the letter]

Dearest [redacted],

I hope you are well. I wonder if you received my first letter, this is the second one I am sending to you. The sappers should have managed to completely free the path behind us now and we should be able to get supplies and cart letters and bodies back to Port now with a little more ease.

I am writing to you after a long spell on sentry duty, as usual I found a plank to balance on my knees, I hope raindrops don't fall on the paper. Sentry duty is the dull death of the soul. Forget about the nasty dwellers of the Tergs we fought together that time: nothing can snuff the life out of a living man like staring in the rainy void for hours to end.

Since the last battle, it never stopped raining. In a way, it looks like when we were together in Vallaki, the incessant rumble, the smell of mud, the constant humidity that seeps into your bones. At first I welcomed the rain. It took away the smell of black powder, and the alchemicals of the acid bombs, and it doused the fire in the woods and the smell of ash, leaving only a spectral landscape of dead trees all around. After a while, it grew old. That while has long gone.

We had our baptism of fire two days ago. We got past the small detachment sent to us to harrass our supplies. Then, since we managed to setup our camp, their forward forces deigned to come forth and begin contact.

The main force in this northern part of the Silent Fields are a mercenary group knowns as Serpents of Doom. Behind this teenage angsty name there are were a fairly large group half elves, hailing from Sithicus.

This group was set to find a patch of land to call their own, after being shunned in their own land for being impure. So in some sort of way or form, they managed to get into service of the Kingsfuhrer, oh I miswrote, the traitors to the Kingsfuhrer of Falkovnia. What they have been promised I do not know, but what I know is that they have been deemed useless, that's why they have been stationed this far from the Keep we will have to besiege sooner or later. Their job was to slow us down, like apples under a charging cavalry unit. The graphic effect was also similar, and not hard to imagine. Everyone got the information but them, apparently.

They sent us a messenger, to ask us, of all things, to surrender. This is how detached from reality these poor souls were. And it made me think, think so hard, of the nature of a half-elf. Are they an impure breed? Or the living proof of a powerful love, a love that breaks the binding of race and customs? Is it an act of egoism, to bring such a child in Mistdom, or is it a blessing, an act of defiance? And what to say about that elven parent, that will know, once holding that little baby in their arms, that they will outlive their child?

I saw that girl while thinking about this, I saw her trying to impress Rox and Banny. I saw the face of someone that did not know she would have been dead in a few hours, without knowing. So cocky, so impudent. So alive.

I would have liked to talk to her, plead to leave this war alone. It was not her war, not her battle, she and her side would have had all to lose and nothing to gain. I wanted to yell to her, make her understand that [bloated ink]o die with their unspent wages in their pockets, their lives cut short. I would have shook her, slapped her into reason. I wanted to tell her she could have been my daughter -how absurd of a thought, I know... but what if life had gone differently for me back then?- and seeing her so confidently giving her life away, thinking they had the means to stop us, the combined forces of Dementlieu and Borca, with the handful of of men and women they were... like stopping a tidal wave with a sieve. She was so cheeky, [redacted]... she was so cheeky, so playful... and she broke my heart...

And sure enough, only a handful of the Serpents survived. She did not. Their lives cut short by a violent, quick, irresistible death. Not even the time to throw their hand up and yell "I SURRENDER!". A few of our men also died, good sons of Ezra. They will be hailed heroes back home, their mourning widows or parents will get a nice package to celebrate their memory. Surely ceremonies will be held when we come back, if it's Ezra's plan in the Grand Scheme, the Cathedrals in pPort and Levkarest will toll their bells in mourning, a monument will be erected somewhere, speeches will be held... but them? These half elves fools, these "Serpents of Doom"... I wonder who will cry for them.

As for myself... i managed to survive the bout. I panicked during the first charge of theirs. I didn't know who to save, how to behave, I wanted to help everyone and be everywhere, and I was in fact nowhere to be found. Rox scolded me, not as hard as she should have, and this made me feel even worse. But I collected my cool, and in our countercharge, I managed to be of actual help, as we have also managed to capture another mercenary captain of a smaller band. I don't have much to say. It was violent and sudden, muskets and ballistas soon left the field to magic and swords, like on older times, and inevitably our side overcame theirs rather quickly, as I said. Bor[bloated ink]ese officials are crack troops -immodestly me included- and this level of threat cannot possibly stop us. I hope it will last.

All that remains is an empty feeling in the stomach, a restlessness of thought. Why these idiots fight to the death i cannot understand for the life of me. Mercenaries should value their lives better than this.

On a better news, I also received a letter from [...]

I also heard of the terrible situation in Vallaki, thought. Things are not going well. I have been there for a few days, and I found the place darker and sadder than it used to be. I do pray Ezra you and your
[from this part on the writing climbs up the border of the page because the space has run out] special friend are well and safe and that no harm will become to you and thoseyouholddear.Runoutofspaceciao R-

[Maffa]

Dearest [redacted],

It has been some time since we last wrote each other. Maybe my last letter, or yours, or both!, got entangled in the mess that the convoy trains to and from Dementlieu are. Nevermind. I need to take the quill and paper again, to distract myself from the mess around me.

A large battle has just ended.

My nostrils are full of the stench of smoke, burned bodies and green wood. More than fifty Falkovnian soldiers have died in the span of not even half an hour, crashing against the wall of our defenses. I am still with my bloodied uniform on: I haven't had the time to change myself, nor the strength. If I think to the me you first knew, a year ago, a lifetime ago... my main concern back then was to rake enough money for the Aster, and be sure there was no more than one "ten o'clock" to my day... And now, not later than two hours ago, I was with a flaming rapier on one hand, and a torn flag to the other, barking orders left and right, trying not to trip on dead bodies under my feet while keeping everyone safe, everything under control, in the demented ballroom of the battlefield.

Fifty Falkovnians are dead. Crack troops, green troops, Reichsmagi... all dead. In the heat of the battle, the urgency fought with the fear of being surrounded, the adrenaline rush of glancing if the frontlines were keeping up, while I was desperately trying to deconstruct the magic barrages of their warmages, dueling at a distance... every volley of luminescent death passing overhead unmistakably made me think two vile thoughts in my mind, at the same time: "I failed someone", and "It's not for me".

But even if we were surrounded, we won the day. Your friend [redacted] was on my back, looking the other side. Every time I brushed a shoulder with an enemy, someone that could have easily sliced me in two like the Zweihander wielding Talon knights, I was lucky enough they were preoccupied with someone else. My rapier has still been useless and unused. So lucky. So, so lucky. And my battered conscience, still clean. I still hang on on this worthless thing. How pathetic I feel. An imposter.

That's not what those put in my care think, fortunately. And they were all safe, in the end, and that's what counts. But my ears heard my voice bellowing orders, or yelling things like "By blood or by silver"... by blood or by silver... who is this guy, what he is even saying, what does it even mean. I only see blood, and dead bodies we cannot afford to give a proper burial to.

The enemy still has proper necromancers at their disposal. We are in the process of changing site for the camp, and we aren't afforded the luxury of ceremonies: we need to leave and clean up after ourselves quick. They don't need it, the dead. And the Falks are not the religious types either, they dont even enjoy the meager consolation to live in hope of a better place to go once dead, had they done everything right. No, they live and die for the sole purpose of their Kingsfuhrer's whims. And yet, I heard them calling their mothers with their last breath as their ghost was leaving their body, mothers that won't be given the chance to have a place where to mourn their sons, and where to leave a flower. All burned, all gone.

So they don't need it; but I could have used it, the little cleansing of giving a small act of respect for these fifty people that wished us dead, and that died for it.

I cannot tell you more about the war, for obvious reasons. Maybe something official will be proclaimed in Port and Levkarest. I cannot tell you anything about my companions either, not until the end. I can, however, tell you it's not over, not yet. Hopefully, soon. Soon.

Reading back, I am afraid this is one of those letters I promised myself not to send you anymore. Perdonami...

Anyway... I hope you are fine, and healthy. I hope there is plenty of levity in your life. A time and place for fine wine and fine dining. A time for all finer things in life. Have fun for me as well!

Hope we will meet soon and share a Gattineri from my own stash. I don't know if I ever made you try it: it's a lovely, lovely wine, one that we enjoyed back home in Levkarest, one that evokes happy memories.

I will let you do your things, i will... what was it..? "not hold you hostage with my written word". I have to see that our wares are being carted properly, and see to the wounded.

Be safe, sė?


Your friend
Romeo

[Maffa]

The mansion's library was well lit. The walls completely covered by the bookshelves, dark as the leather bound books lined up for all its length. One man sat at the heavy reading desk, while another sat on one of the four damasked armchairs.
The first, a middle aged man, with a crown of white hair, held a peaceful smile on his face, hands knitted over his soft belly's bulge peeking from the red velvet dressing gown. He looked at all the people in the room, apparently thoughtless. Those that knew him intimately learned to fear that expression, because it was anything but.

The armchair hosted a young man, his expression slightly bemused. A soft, silken white shirt was unbuttoned down just before his plexus, torn, and bloodied here and there. On the naked chest, a largish and gaudy looking white gold shield shaped pendant, with over impressed images of a sword and a sprig of belladonna, delicately painted in green, here and there scratched off by time and use. The young man expanded on his cushioned armchair as to occupy as much space as possible, his elbows wide, one foot resting on the other leg's knee as spread out as comfort would allow. His demeanor was of carelessness and defiance at the same time, and he could have it pulled off, weren't for the tumefactions and bloodied scratches on his face that made his confidence less likely to buy. He looked around, at no one in particular, as if his presence wasn't the topic of the meeting.

The third figure was not sitting. He was pacing back and forth on the huge woolen carpet, hands now locked behind his back, now wildly gesturing in front of his face. He sported a beard, black as his hair, not yet any silver peeking, and a silver trimmed blue velvet coat over a fine black silken shirt. He was elegant, but even a casual observer would have noticed the lack of a cravat, which a keener observer would have spotted laying on the ground by one of the shelves along the walls. His expression was that of pure rage, consumed by an inner altercation, that suddenly exploded on the younger man's face on a roar.

"WHATEVER HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU! DISGRAZIATO!"

His face, contorted by fury, was red and white, spits flying off his mouth. The younger man theatrically grimaced, making a scene of turning his face with an annoyed expression, while shielding from the flying droplets with his open hand.

"For whose sake was that duel called for, eh? EH?? Your cousin went out a limb for you! FOR YOU!  You useless leech! You bread stealer! You can't even defend yourself, and Alfio had to step up for you! If it weren't for me, your uncle Saverio wouldn't have ever allowed it! YOU HEAR ME, EH? YOU DEAF NOW?" His face now an inch to his younger brother's face, whose grimace now was less theatrical, and more convincing.

The angry man retreated to the middle of the room, resuming his fast pacing back and forth. His hands a flourishing of gestures, a poor outlet for his emotions.

"Half Levkarest was spectating... ... the man of the Counts was there... ... the Seafasa would have known by now!! GaaaAAAAH!! ROMEO!" Spins to face his brother again "You are this family's ruin! W-w-what was that! Vraja?! In public?! IN PUBLIC!! IN THE MIDDLE OF A DUEL!!" The man's hands go to his hair, his eyes open wide, his expression shifting from rage to desperation.

Romeo rolled his eyes, in defiant supponence. Flourished a hand as he patiently explained with a pleasant, baritonal voice  "Vraja vraja... you don't even know what you are talking about~" he mused. "I don't use vraja as I can't use vraja, Fabrizio~ That's a sin, and Don Furio would be on my back if I did, and besides I can't, simple as that~"

"Don't lie! You cannot weasel your way out of this! Not this time! You have been caught! You waited for Riccardo to pass in front of you and you... said... chanted something, you...  hexed him somehow! Two dozen people were there!"

Romeo softly laughed, a baritonal laugh, from deep within his chest, warm and cordial, waving his hand in dismissal.

"What hex... what vraja... Nothing of the sort~ I was just trying to suggest to that dounce Riccardo that this whole business was a waste of everybody's time~ Everything is just a misunderstanding! Who goes to war for a little chat, two young people admiring a garden~"

"You helped Giulia escape from home at night and brought her to the Cathedral's Garden! She's his cousin!" Fabrizio furiously hammered his temple with his finger "Who does that! Who does ever think of that! What misunderstanding! You know who Giulia is prom-"

"A suggestion~" The old man opened his mouth for the first time. His voice not unpleasant, nor angry, almost amused. But had an undertone that his sons learned to fear.

This was the cue for Fabrizio that his part was over and that he should leave the stage for his father. Wordlessly, he paced back to one of the unoccupied armchairs, and let himself fall on it, his inner fire suddenly snuffed, covering his face with his hand in utter defeat.

Romeo didn't dare to look away from his father's face. He kept his defiant smile, but his eyes denoted his cockiness was now under serious threat.

"As I said, dear papā. Just a suggestion~" smiled.

The old man's eyes were fixed on Romeo's. The two men didn't look much alike one another. Only an acute observer of faces would find the young man's cheeks and chin under the older man's fatter lines.

"And why is that, son~ Explain that to me." He mused, but then added "Again." Again: that frightening undertone, the promise of nightmares.

Romeo stood still for the fraction of eternity, then reprised his sing-songy voice.

"Oh, dear papā... they made so much fuss around nothing, you see~ What business have Riccardo de' Riccarducci and Alfio to wound one another for whatever me and Giulia did or did not~ They fought over dice at the Rosebud's Thorn three weeks ago, they had been dragged away from one another while they tried skiving each other, they shouted promises of death as they were brought away from the tavern..." Romeo added with a cheerful laugh. His father didn't deem worth interrupting him. "Whatever I did, that was no ground for people spilling blood~ We only chatted, what would you think one could do by the Cathedral? Sooo... I was meaning to suggest that prick Riccardo that all this affair wasn't worth hurting one another, pushing onto me and lovely Giulia the burden of a... a... newly born feud between two families..."

His father looked at him for a second, then inclined his head back and let out his laugh. Ah ah ah ah ah. It was a strange laugh, a mirthless laugh, the laugh of someone that learnt later in life how people laughed and practised.

"Romeo, Romeo~ You really have your mother's temperament." Both Romeo and Fabrizio felt the sting. His father never told his sons about their respective mothers, except when he wanted to hurt, while mentioning some irreparable defect of character. "What business have you in managing our family relations, praytell? You never cared in the first place~ if you really cared about the family name maybe you would have held your hands off a Riccardetti girl, no? There is plenty of whores in Paramour street~" His tone changed, went for the disconsolate "I stopped bothering about you years ago... You do not have what it takes to be a made man. You will never sit on the family board. Our Guardian knows if I did not try to steer you in the right direction~ I simply wished that you did not tarnish our name so much to become a liability... was it too much to ask?"

The perfect silence that followed was only amplified by the tick-tocking of the Lamordian clock on a shelf. Don Alfonso Lascaris then opened his mouth. The tone of his voice shed the fake pleasantness. It was the calm voice of the lead of the Lascaris family, a voice that commanded attention, caution, and fear.

"In force of our indenture, I command you to leave the mansion, the city, and the country. It will take time to mend the wound you brought to the family."

"Aah, very well~ I guess I will have to try my luck in Port-a..."

"Oh no no, ah ah ah ah. No Dementlieu, nor Richemulot for you. It would only worsen your character's flaws, wouldn't it. You need a place more rustic, simple, and closer. ... ... Barovia. Barovia would do."

Romeo's demeanor lost his cock-sure posture, and a flush of anger and alarm surged from within.

"Dear papā... Krezk cannot po-"

"No, not Krezk I am afraid it is too close. We do not want no Riccardetti finding you that easily, no? Safe and sound, not close enough for the Riccardetti to find you, nor too far away from me not to manage you. I still hold your indenture, you are still an asset of mine, however defective. Fabrizio, what town is past Krezk on the Svalich road~"

"... Vallaki." he answered, his hand still darkening his eyes.

"Ahh, wonderful. You are right." faked not knowing the place all too well. "What a quaint little place. Full of down to earth people, no frills, no distractions. Good work ethic. That town will do you a lot of good~" he mused, the malicious sting far too evident to hide. His tone become dark, any cover for pleasantness gone. Alfonso Lascaris then spoke his order, as the thugs' boss. "You shall move to Vallaki, and stay low there. You will await my orders there. I will discuss your case with the other made men on the family board. You stay out of trouble there. I would rather prefer you dead than another source of shame to our name. Am I being understood, Romeo Antonino?"

".... Sė, papā."

~ * ~

"Hey friend!" "Young lord!" "Signorino, ahaha!" "What's the haste!" "Come here!" "Come here!" "Fear not, young lord!" "We are the Sef's own men!" "His own men!" "We are here for you!" "For your safety!" "Everyone's safety!" "We keep off miscreants!" "Brigands!" "Thieves and robbers!" "Let us help!" "You are burdened!" "What a load!" "What -a- load!" "How many thousands?" "No no no!" "No no no!""Too much!" "Too many!" "It's dangerous!" "For Barovia?" "For Vallaki?" "They eat turnips!" "Garlic!" "Raw potatoes!" "Tree barks" "And grass!" "Ahahaha!" "A few hundreds!" "Just enough!" "Just right!" "Juuuust right!" "And what's this?" "Silk?" "Velvet?" "And wine!" "No no no!" "No no no!" "You will scare the locals!" "Too shiny a shirt!" "Too fine a coat!" "Too red a liquid!" "Vraja! Vrolok!" "Ahahahaha!" "Ahahahah!" "Let us help!" "We will help!" "We serve the Sef!" "We pledged to serve!" "There you go!" "Off you go, signorino!" "Goddess blesses you, young lord!" "And pray for us, when you arrive!" "Ezra bless!" "Ezra bless!"

~ * ~

The Svalich road between Krezk and Vallaki was long, deserted and chilly. A drizzling, cold rain fell over Romeo as he tried to cover himself up with whatever the condottieri had the heart to leave him with. Carcasses of a dozen wolves lined up along the grass. Finally alone, he let his mask fall for the first time, his head a whirlwind of thoughts.

Everyone is safe. No one died. No one is wounded. Everyone is safe. No one will have to die. No one will suffer. Giulia will be safe. They don't know nothing about me and her. They judge. The always judge me. They think they know me. How can they judge. What do they know. WHAT DO THEY KNOW. WHAT - DO - THEY - KNOW. Everybody is safe. No one is hurt. No one will die. She will be safer away from me. I am not her happiness. It lies away. It's the best. It's for the best. I told her. That was our farewell. Forever. I can endure. I will endure.

~ * ~

The outskirts before the western walls was the worthy anticipation for the place called "the Grey City". Along the road, a decrepit heathen temple, three well done kicks and a sneeze away from collapsing, and in front of that, a sad inn with a creaky sign, "The Lady's Resting Place". In the middle of the two sad buildings, in the mud, a variety of people Romeo had never seen, some peddling wares strange and hard to guess, others resembling those he read about during the long hours in his mansion's library, when he did not know how to handle locks yet and was grounded indoors.
The people were the strangest though. Pitic and fey, of all shapes and forms, some colourful, some glum, , some alone, some in huddles, some with a hood and cape, some happily under the rain. He never saw a fey before, and he marvelled at their alien beauty.
Some of those folks were painfully out of place, more than he felt. Standing with halberds in hand and clad in outdated armors, brown soldiers with a brown mood promised nothing good.

He slipped inside the inn, hoping to have something warm to eat, and possibly a fireplace where to dry.

As he turned behind a wall, half hidden by a pillar, he saw her.

Beautiful, so beautiful that was almost too hard to look at. Eyes of onix. Skin of marble. Lips of red, cherry and love. Makeup skillfully applied, no chance for an amateur. Her auburn hair collected in a bun, on top of her head, except for two twirling locks, framing her features. A silken dress, white and black, precious and lovely, dirty on the hems of mud and filth. And nor on her earlobes, nor on her thin, curated fingers, and neither on her long neck, a single jewel was to be seen. 

As he tried to move by her table, irresistibly drawn, a couple people cut his path. Strange heathen cultists surrounded her, talking her down about sin and salvation. Her voice was that of an alto, her cadence -ah!- Borcan, from hilly Dorvinia, most likely. She alternated patient explanations to insulted defenses.

He took a table nearby, drumming his fingers, biding his time, gazing at her with unhidden and unrepentant interest. She noticed, she smiled: he was glad. When the couple finally left defeated, he slipped in on the seat in front of her.

"Fancy meeting a paisana this far from home~"

"Oh? What a surprise..!" she chirped. Her large pupils scanned the young man, appraisingly.

He smiled the practised smile of Romeo Lascaris.
"I recognized you from far away... A blessing for sore eyes! I just arrived in this wretch of a town, and never I thought to meet someone so close to home~"

She giggled, another practised, yet lovely giggle, a dozen tiny silver bells, ringing all at once.
"I have just arrived in town myself! What was the chance?"

He tilted his head, offering the most charming smile he had in his arsenal.
"Romeo. Romeo Lascaris, of the Lascaris of Levkarest. And whom I have the honor of talking to?"

"Roxana Barozzi", she smiled back. "Lovely to meet you..."

[Maffa]

Alone. I will be alone. I will be left alone. I am wrong.

No I'm not! I am valued! i take care of my friends! I am-

Alone. Everyone leaves me. Everyone takes from me. When I ask for something back, everyone leaves. I am not worth it.

That's not it! it's not a barter! I-

Alone. There will be always someone or something better than me. Stronger than me. Faster than me. Richer than me. Anything can be more special than me. I am blind. I am blind. I am blind.

That's misfortune! It could have

Alone.

ALONE.

ALONE.

ALONE.

[Maffa]

He had woken up late in the morning. A few pages of crumpled up music sheet laid on top of his desk, his lute leaning by the chair, testimonial of failed musical attempts. He had his hair down, all ruffled up, his ponytail undone.

The light hangover gently pulsed on his temple, a kind reminder of his pain and that he was, if nothing else, still alive. The sorrow, the shadow on his heart, was not laying on a specific hole, not anymore. Many blows received during the last days made the landscape within himself a bleak, grey picture, something like that strange swamp he frequently stumbled onto during his forays in the Mistlands. One by one, each rope that kept him tethered to port has broken, or has come off loose, and just a few remained. 

The breakfast was waiting outside his door, courtesy of the kitchens of the Governor's. Judging by the light outside, he still had time to eat, shave and bath, before the maids would come knocking at his door to clean the apartment. He still remembered their faces, months ago, when he locked himself inside for weeks, unable to move a muscle. They would not look at him, the rare times he would drag himself down, the shadow of a man, his unshaven black beard, black rings around his eyes, just to pay the rent and then climb the steps back for four floors, a titanic experience for someone that barely drunk cold unsugared tea and ate soggy toast.

These days, it was even worse than then. And yet, he was somewhat not as overwhelmed as he used to. Somewhere within himself there was something of, not really the strength to fight back, but at least an acceptance (of the Grand Scheme, his mind would automatically complete).

He took and wore the silken robe by his bed, opened the door of his apartment and took the tray in. Instead of eating by the coffee table or by his desk, now a graveyard of misplaced musical inspiration, he set the tray by his window, and oped to have his breakfast standing, watching outside.

His window faced westward. It was not one of the prized rooms that overlook the Promenade of the Quartier Publique, and he was more than glad. The sea had an unsettling quality to him, son of a landlocked country. Always moving, way too vast, the horizon escaping his sight. On the west, instead, he could peer beyond the walls. He could see the traffic of coaches coming and going by the Vie Eclairče, where he fancied, a few weeks ago... a lifetime ago... if he could ever find a way to set himself and his wife and daughter. By a little sliver of the coast, he could guess the fireplace of the Vistani encampment, because he knew where to look. But his sight would more gladly rest on the wood expanse, the flat forested land that it was more resemblant of home.

And if he closed his eyes, he could hear the Luna flowing by
He could see the hills, and the fields around the walls
He'd smell the Cathedral's garden, under spring's bluest sky
And could see all the parties, his friends dressed up for the balls

He could hear the din of Levkarest at night
The girls harking, the laughs, the hollers and the songs
And then a thought gets worming through, that he might
Find his back to where his heart still longs.

It lasted a second, and he opened his eyes. He quickly drank his tea, and ate his meal. He carefully groomed himself, as he did every day of the week, with a puff of cologne at the end, and got gingerly down the stairs of the Hotel as the femmes de ménage were climbing up to his room, he chirped a greeting, they lowered their head, encumbered with linens and cleaning rags. Left a letter by the concierge, checked his mail, and gingerly turned his back round towards the exit, for another day in the Capital of Progress.