Matteo turned over and blinked as the sun filtered through the window of the garret. He reached over to his right and felt someone next to him in the sheets and his confusion only deepened. The room was unfamiliar, with its hanging tapestries and sputtering sconces on the stone walls, and the bed was not his own. He sat up slowly as his eyes adjusted to the morning light and when the full scope of what he saw sunk in his skin turned deathly pale. The room was spattered with blood across the tapestries and walls and the person next to him in the bed was the source of it all. He scrambled up the bed, recoiling in terror, trying to make sense of what was happening. The person was clearly dead, still covered in the bed sheets, and he could not bring himself to draw it back and see who was there. He stepped gingerly out of the bed, trying to remember how he got there. He had been drinking with the other clerks at the Dog and Duck near the former King’s residences in the city center, laughing about a magistrate’s terrible ruling in a case before him in his manor court. They had had a few cups of wine but nothing to excess, as far as he remembered, and then nothing until he opened his eyes minutes before.

On the floor at his feet, he saw his sword, bloodied to the hilt, laying haphazardly in a drying pool of blood. He grabbed it up and began to clean it furiously on the soiled sheets, trying to erase any trace of blood from it. His cleaning tugged on the sheet and when he looked up, he swore violently. The body next to him was in plain view now and he knew, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that his life was over. It was another of the clerks he had trained with since he was a boy, the principal secretary to his own employer’s closest ally in the court. Antonio had been a close friend of his through their service and their employers were working tirelessly to bring the Queen south from Mamlak to claim the throne and end the civil war. Now he was in Antonio’s bed, with Antonio stripped naked, his cold flesh almost a translucent white, and his sword sheeted in blood. Something had clearly happened but for the life of him, Matteo could not tell what. He did not have time to ponder his situation as boots began to sound on the wooden stairs to the garret. He pulled on his own trousers and held his sword at the guard, the thin blade weaving slowly side to side as the first gauntleted fist hammered on the door and a voice shouted for him to open it in the name of the King’s Justices. He did not even had a chance to reach for the bolt before a boot sent it flying off its hinges and men poured into the small room. Even as he plunged his rapier at the first, he saw a blow of a mace from the corner of his eye, arcing for the back of his head and as his blade found the man’s throat, his vision went black and he dropped, insensate, to the rush-strewn floor.

Matteo’s eyes snapped open again and he looked up at the ceiling’s beams, smoke-blacked wood covered with rushes and rolled over, feeling the damp sheets next to him. For a second, he thought he was back in the garret and then the clucking of a chicken broke through his morning haze and reminded him that he was far from that hellish place. He pulled the sweat-soaked sheet off himself and swung his legs out of the bed. The small inn just outside the city had become his home after he was released from the labor camp, being as he was not welcome in the city itself and had not been formally pardoned. He had protested his innocence all through the sham of a trial where the magistrate Maurice sentenced him within the hour to ten years in the King’s mines. It had been a hell on earth between the sadism of the guards and the prisoners themselves, a supposed “mercy” on the part of the magistrate, but in reality, a prolonged sentence of death. Very few men survived their first year in the camp, let alone ended their sentences but Matteo had found a way to survive. The manners of his years in the royal court were replaced with a feral cruelty, a will to survive that would sanction any action that would protect his own life, and even after he was released as a final favor from his former employer, the bestial nature remained.

As he dressed himself, Matteo stretched his left shoulder, feeling the lump of scar tissue there from a pick axe he took in one of the shafts during a scuffle with another prisoner. It took stretching every morning to keep it from stiffening up throughout the day and he swore for the thousandth time that he would find an apothecary to get a liniment to help ease the daily pain. He scratched his beard, wondering idly if there were any lice from the inn’s poor condition, but let the thought pass as he pulled his patched shirt over his head. Even though it was threadbare in places, Matteo still wore the same tunic he had the day he was arrested as a reminder of what he had suffered and so that he would never falter in his charge to find out who sent him to that hell in the mines. He could have bought another tunic, though it would cost him more silver than he was willing to spend, but when it came to arming himself, he spared no expense.

His court rapier was long gone, likely hanging on the hip of one of the men who had arrested him in the garret but the day he was released, he found the swordsmith that forged his first blade and gave every crescent he had to his name and bought a blade of equal quality and a matching dagger. The smith thought he was mad at first, refusing to even speak to the bearded madman, but the weight of his silver was enough to convince the man to take on the project and within the month, he created a beautiful blade, quick, thin, and deadly. Matteo smiled as he buckled it around his waist. Every day he could stand and breathe the free air and walk the country with his blades at his waist was a blessing and he took them as such, breathing in deeply the chill morning air that seeped through the warped horn window in his small chamber. Below him that family that ran the inn was busy preparing the morning meal for all the guests and he decided to leave them in peace. Instead, he walked out to the yard, behind the inn to the jakes to relieve himself.

As he leaned against the wall, pissing into the deep trench, he felt a blade pressed against the back of his neck. “Well, well, well… look who it is, eh? The one that got away…” Matteo flinched involuntarily at the sound of the man’s voice, a harsh, grating accent from the bowels of Adeluna’s worst districts. “Remember me, pretty boy?”

“Sadio… how could I forget such a cowardly piece of shit? Sneaking up on a man taking a piss, that’s low, even for you. Though, if memory serves, you always did want to catch a man with his pants down,” snarled Matteo as he shifted his left hand subtly to the hilt of his dagger. “Day release from Her Majesty’s Home for Wayward Boys and you bothered to look in on me? I’m flattered. If we’re going to do this, at least let me tie up my breeches, yeah?”

The man laughed, a wet, throaty noise, and relieved some of the pressure from the blade. It was all the opportunity Matteo needed. He drew his dagger with his left hand and lurched forward. Surprised, Sadio leaned forward to thrust his blade into his former prisoner but Matteo’s movement left him unbalanced. As his sword arm shot forward, Matteo speared the point of the dagger into his gaoler’s wrist. The man cursed and dropped his sword and Matteo drove his first hard into the man’s face, shattering his nose in a sheet of blood. Tying his stays with one hand, Matteo sprinted out of the building, shoving Sadio out of the way and made for the fields beyond the inn. He sprinted full out, abandoning whatever sparse possessions he had left to Sadio to root through when he recovered, and instead pounded over the small track that ran toward the woods. The air was burning in his lungs and his legs screamed in protest but he quickened his pace, hoping to lose any possible pursuit from the cruel specter of his past. When he was been released, Sadio swore that he would find him and make him regret ever leaving the camps and Matteo had thought it was just an idle threat by an angry, impotent man watching the object of his cruelty slip from his grasp. It seemed that the threats were not idle and Matteo cursed himself for slowing down and growing comfortable at the inn. He brought it on himself and now he lost his haven at the inn for good.

He burst through a small stand of trees into a clearing with a statue in its center. He felt his legs straining and he tripped over an upraised root, staggering forward into the statue. The moment he touched the cool marble, he felt the world shift, as though he was being stretched and pulled in every direction at once in a flash of bright light. When it faded, he found himself in a strange city, made of black and white marble, divided out from the entrance on either side. Matteo blinked and started forward, moving toward the left, into the darker half of the city. He slipped his rapier from its sheath at his side, holding it out on his right with his dagger still held in his left. In front of him, the city seemed to twist and form itself into the tunnels of the king’s mines. The air grew dank and heavy and the sun disappeared until the only light came from flickering rush lights drilled into the granite walls of the mine. Men, chained together like slaves broke the stone with pick axes under the watchful eye of armed guards whose whips cracked against their bare backs if they ever slowed their labor. The taste of sweat soured his mouth and he spat to clear it, drawing the attention of one of the guards. The man shouted at him and lashed out with the metal-clawed tip of his bull whip.

Only this time Matteo was not chained like an animal and his blade flashed in the light of the rush lamps, cutting easily through the braided leather. The hooked iron spike clattered along the granite floor and Matteo began to laugh, advancing with his blades before him, looking to strike back at the men who had made his life a living hell. His lips pulled back over his teeth in a rictus of a grin, as feral as wolf baring its teeth before it leapt on its prey. Wherever this place was, he thought as he thrust his sword toward the first guard he encountered, he was starting to enjoy it.

The frame for the bed Dalanesca had chosen for her chambers was carved completely out of obsidian, save a few white marble accents that decorated each of the four posts.  The linens themselves were of black silk with white edgings - she found that she tended to like things to be darker hued in her new home, even though it was the embodiment of equal balance.  Dalanesca lay in this bed, staring up at the black and white marble ceiling above her.  She could just barely make out the harsh morning sun behind the drawn shades of her windows which looked out into the central courtyard between Malum and Sanctus.  She had been awake for some time, having been unable to sleep very well the previous night.  Her new position of power was taking some getting used to, and she was having a difficult time coming to terms with some of the changes.  She had never been one for all the pomp and circumstance that power came with, and not even ascension to a point of power such as she had achieved was enough to change that about her.

Begrudgingly, the raven haired woman lifted herself into a sitting position and swung her legs over the edge of the bed while simultaneously throwing her blankets to the side.  Her bare feet touched the cool marble of the floor and she paused, before standing and walking to her bureau.  Her clothes for the day had been neatly set out for her - a tunic, leggings, corset, boots, and belt.  She dressed lazily, contemplating how she would spend her day.  She hadn’t yet heard from any magistrates of any travellers arriving for council, so that was out of the question.  Sitting back down on her bed, she pulled each of her boots on.  She stood, walking to the black chest that lay at the foot of her bed.  Kneeling in front of it, she pushed the lid open.  Inside there was an assortment of weaponry - mostly blades.  She chewed on her lower lip in thought for a moment, before grabbing two small daggers.  She tucked the blades into her belt, and reached forward to grab another.  This one was a bit longer but very narrow, and she grabbed a small armlet that lay next to it the chest.  She pushed up the sleeve on her right arm and slide her hand through the armlet.  The narrow blade she had retrieved slipped nicely into a leather hold inside of it.  Rolling the sleeve of her tunic back down, she was pleased with how the weapon was concealed and stood back up.

Dalanesca did not feel the need to be heavily armed at all times while in her own realm, but she felt absolutely naked if she did not have at least a few small blades concealed on her person.  There had yet to be any major confrontations take place in the central area of the Scales - most violence in the realm seemed to be confined to Malum, the side of the city fashioned after darkness and evil.  Sanctus, Malum’s counterpart,  had yet to have any issues arise, but Dalanesca was not surprised by this.  

She stood idly by the door leading out of her chambers for a moment, still stuck on what to do.  With frustration, she sighed, leaning on the wall.  No one had informed her how much absolute boredom accompanied being someone with such power.  She was not confined to her realm, by any means - she travelled as a mortal in Revaliir on most occasions.  There were just some days when it seemed more relaxing to her to stay where she was truly in control, where she did not have to hold the ruse of being normal.  Not much was different about the woman save the exponential increase in her abilities and her strength.  

She finally came to a decision.  On days when she hadn’t anything pressing to do, she would sometimes sit in a room she had deemed the Observatory.  The name was not an official title, but as of yet she was the only person to step foot in the room.  She exited her chamber and walked down the hallway a few paces.  Coming to a large black door, she pushed it open, stepping into what seemed to be nothingness.  The room was merely a void - there was nothing.  No color, no light, no sound.  Some sort of power within the room activated when the Justiciar entered, allowing her to view whichever part of her realm she pleased.  This allowed her to observe whatever situations visitors to the realm had put themselves in.  

Feeling less than happy  on this morning, Dalanesca thought of Malum in her mind, and immediately the void around her transformed into a translucent version of Malum.  Her perspective was that of a bird’s eye view, high above that side of the city.  She could see people in a few places, each in a different situation.  On the far south wall of the city, a woman sat sobbing uncontrollably, cradling the limp, lifeless body of a small child in her arms.  Dalanesca felt pity for the woman for a moment.  She thought about putting herself there, with the woman, but decided against it.  She wanted some sort of challenge, but she did not think that sadness was the type of challenge she was looking for.

Directing her attention to the eastern wall of Malum, she could see a girl, probably around the age of fifteen.  Her clothing was covered in dirt and blood, ripped beyond repair.  A group of men pursued her, and she was screaming, pleading for help from anyone that could hear.  For a moment, Dalanesca found herself wondering why this girl would have put herself into this situation, but swiftly she realized that the true man imagining the scenario was the one at the head of the pack chasing after her.  She could nearly taste the violent lust in his mind, and it disgusted her.  With a wave of her hand, his hallucinations disappeared and he was alone in the street, completely bewildered.  Moments later, another man apparated behind him, cracking him over the head with a large stone - it seemed that Dalanesca had chosen for the man to experience the pain that he had wished upon the girl he had been chasing.  The larger man that had knocked him down loomed over him, intent on inflicting whatever it was that he so chose.

Not wanting to watch the scene before her, she moved her sights closer to the gates of Malum’s entrance.  A man had just entered, and he certainly looked as though he had seen better days.  She noticed that the portion of the city the man was in had transformed itself into a replica of a mine, specifically that of a prison.  Men endlessly hammered the stone, cutting away at it with pick axes and shovels.  The man in control of the fantasy did not quite seem to grasp what was happening.  He did something - she thought it looked as though he had spit onto the ground - and garnered the attention of one of the guards.  Naturally, a confrontation occurred, but the man seemed to be defending himself as though he had yet to realize he was truly in control of the situation.  

This confusion happened from time to time, and it mostly seemed to be with those who travelled to the realm accidentally.  Dalanesca, being a fair person, would put herself into their illusions and explain what was going on.  Travellers were then given a choice to continue their journey, or she would transport them back out of the realm.  This man in particular fell into that category, so she decided this was a proper time to display the mercy of the realm.

She closed her eyes, reopening them inside of the newcomer’s illusion.  She had chosen to replace one of the many prison guards in the scene, but at the exact moment she opened her eyes, she could see the man lunging at her with a sword.  Being of a different stature than the illusioned guard, the blade did not pierce true, instead burying itself deep into her left shoulder.  A sharp pain shot through her shoulder, screaming into her arm.  Her eyes widened and she let out a gasp of pain - she may have been immortal, but even immortals were not impervious to pain.  “What the fuck,” she exclaimed, all sense of propriety and eloquence fleeing from her mind all together.

The man’s eyes had widened in sheer confusion at the realization that the person he had meant to hit with his blade had completely been replaced by someone different altogether, freezing for a moment.  The moment was long enough for her to act.  She grabbed the blade, wrapping her right hand around it.  Blood oozed from inside her closed fist as she pulled the sword out from her shoulder as swiftly as she was able, wrenching it from her would-be attacker’s hands.  She tossed it aside, the steel clattering to the ground.  With unnatural speed, she drew a dagger from her waist and lunged forward, holding it to his neck.  “Who are you to attack the Justiciar in her own realm?” she hissed, snaking herself around to stand behind him, the blade pressed into his neck lacking enough pressure to slice through his skin.  After a moment of speechlessness and immobility from the man, she released the blade from his neck, and stepped away, using the hand of her injured arm to spin the man around to face her.  The confusion in his face reminded her that she had acted out of character for herself, and she took a step further back.  “Do you know where you are?” she asked the man, narrowing her eyes at him.  “Do you know who I am?”

The confines of the mine shaft were perfect for the sort of killing that Matteo had in mind. It was something he had always noticed when he was sweating and coughing with the other inmates, that the guards were carrying greatswords and heavy war axes that could barely be swung in the dark recesses of the mine. Instead, with his thrusting blades, he could bring death to them and revisit on them the pain and indignities that he had suffered at their hands. Whatever god it was that sent him back to this hell, and he knew it had to be some flavor of magic or divinity to transport him out of his place and deposit him in this one, was a twisted one in deed, but the sort of twisted that Matteo appreciated. The guard with the whip staggered back in confusion, his whip useless and discarded at his side as he struggled to drag the his yard-long greatsword out of its scabbard at his waist. Panic made him fumble and the steel did not have time to clear the brass mouth of his scabbard before Matteo’s blade flicked out like the tongue of a snake and sliced into his right eye, blinding him in an instant of intense pain. The man screamed and let go of his sword’s hilt to clutch his hand to his bloodied and ruined eye. A second strike, as quick as the first blinded the other and the man sank to his knees is fear and pain.

Matteo grinned as the man fell to the dust-covered mine shaft’s floor and left the blinded guard to his pain and turned on the next man wearing the hated livery of the royal house of Adeluna. Seeing as the man was already armed and wary, his axe held low, Matteo fairly leapt forward, stamping heavily with his leading right foot as he thrust the blade forward, the point poised to strike the man between the ribs that protected his heart and pierce it with brutal force. As the blade winked in the torchlight, set to snatch the guard’s life, something seemed to shift almost imperceptibly in the mine and suddenly the man was gone, replaced with a woman in black. Her stature, smaller than the guard’s, meant that the blade, instead of racing for her heart, speared into her shoulder. Before he could answer her shout, the woman yanked the blade out of her shoulder and wrenched it out of his grip in a single motion, sending it clattering across the black cobblestones as the mine faded back to the streets of the city.

She was quick, he would give her that, he thought, as she pulled her own steel and closed with him, her blade pressing against his neck as she pivoted around him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to steady him as she held him hostage. She was muttering something about realms and a Justiciar and Matteo had not a single idea as to what she was talking about. She has him well pinned but even as his back remained motionless, he silently reversed the long dagger in his left so he held it like a pick, able to drive it up under her ribs and into her vital organs with one quick jab. She had not killed him yet but he was not one to take chances when there was a blade to his throat. Before he could press the blade against her as a subtle reminder that he was still armed and still would not hesitate to defend himself, he felt the edge of the knife leave his throat and spun round at her hand to face her. He smiled, a charming, well-rehearsed smile from his days in court, then took a wary step back and switched his long dagger to his right hand.

“To be quite honest, no, I haven’t a fucking clue where I am, what a Justiciar is, why in the nine hells there was a mine here and then a street or a street then a mine or whatever the hell it was, and all I know about you is you’re the lunatic woman who decided it was a bloody brilliant idea to pop up in the fucking line of my strike then get offended when I stabbed you! Now, either start giving me a few answers, since you seem to have all of them, or give me my sword and let me be on my way. That is unless you have a burning desire to leap onto another blade, in which case I will gladly oblige you.” He circled her warily, his dagger unwavering in his grip, angling toward his discarded rapier. He could not make heads not tails of the strange woman but he preferred to do his thinking with a few feet of sharpened Adelunan steel between him and the apparent lunatic with a dagger and a death wish.

Her eyebrow quirked at the smile that the man gave her when she spun him around.  The situation seemed a tad unusual for smiling, which led her to the conclusion that this character had practice at masking his true emotions.  As he took a step away from her, she noted the longer dagger in his hand, realizing just how careless she had been when she had pulled her own blade on him.  She noted that had she held him at the edge of her blade much longer, she could have ended up with his stuck somewhere in her torso.  Considering she had already sustained quite a severe injury, she was grateful that her she had come to her senses and released him.

The man answered the prying questions she had asked him, offering a rebuttal of his own questions.  She failed to stifle a laugh when he referred to her as a ‘lunatic woman,’ the phrase being more than enough to assure her that his ignorance was not feigned.  She listened to him, turning her body in time with his circling so that she still faced him.  She made no move to arm herself or attempt to defend herself, instead sheathing the weapon that she had previously pulled on him.  She could see that he was moving towards the sword he had mistakenly buried in her shoulder, and did not bother to stop him.  

Taking a few steps further back, she sat herself down on the hard stone that paved the street in the section of Malum they stood in.  She let out a pained groan, turning her head to look down at her wound.  Looking back at the man, she first answered his last comment.  “I’d rather you not stab me again, thank you very much,” she retorted, stretching on leg out in front of her.  She pulled a dagger from her belt and used to to shear off a portion of her shirt sleeve.  Taking the scrap of white fabric, she dabbed at the blood blossoming out from the puncture. “But I do suppose an explanation is in order.”

She was silent for a moment, not moving to stand from her position on the ground.  She stiffly slid her dagger back into its sheath.  For a moment she was silent, eyes resting on the man before her, deciding on how to accomplish the arduous task of explaining herself.   “Where you stand right now?  This street?  This is Malum.  You’re on the dark side of the Blinded Scales,” she said.  “If you had gone through the other gates, you would have been in Sanctus, and I would venture to guess that your experience over there would have been a bit different than this,” she added.  “That’s what this place is, this realm - the Blinded Scales.  It’s a domain, or a realm, or whatever it is those religious type choose to call it these days,” she further explained.  “Home to She Who Maintains Order and Balance,” she said, her voice taking on the tone of speaking of something high and mighty, though dripping with sarcasm. 

Hoisting herself up, she moved into a standing position, leaning the uninjured side of her body against a stone wall of the building she stood beside.  The wound she had earlier sustained had dulled down a bit, and she could feel her divinity at work in speeding up the healing process.  It was going to hurt like hell for a few days, but she had it much easier than any mortal who sustained such an injury would.  “I am going to make a bold assumption that you did not come here on purpose,” she said.  “You’re not the first to get yourself stuck here - but fortunately for you it won’t be difficult to get out, if you want,” she added.

She gestured to the bleak, dark roadway that the two stood in.  “The Blinded Scales have an unusual quality.  Sanctus shows people what makes them joyful, makes them happy.  Let’s them live out memories the way they wanted them to play out.”  She looked away from the man, casting her eyes towards the ground.  “Then… there’s this,” she continued, waving a hand around in front of her.  “This is Malum,” she said.  “This is where some men face their greatest fears.  Some men live out their darkest fantasies.” She eyed him for a moment.  “Malum and Sanctus both use the power of the realm to manifest whatever is hidden deep within a man’s mind - your mind,” she said.  “Everything that happened there was because your mind thought it.”  She chuckled a bit.  “Well, almost everything.  I am going to assume that you did not imagine a woman magically replacing the man you were lunging for,” she added with a bit of a grin.  

She regained her posture from the wall, and slowly walked to where the man’s sword lay discarded on the ground.  She picked it up, angling the blade downward in a non threatening manner, and stepped towards him, holding the hilt out for him to take.  When he took it, she stepped back against.  “And that leaves the Justiciar,” she said, half-rolling her eyes.  “That’s the title that has been so graciously bestowed on me; although, I will be honest with you and tell you I much prefer being called Dalanesca.  It’s been my name my entire life, no sense in changing it now.”  She dabbed once more at the wound in her shoulder.  “Apparently, when the realm was crafted, this is what I thought of.  I should have had a bit more foresight on the entrance, though,” she added.  “A bunch of you lot come here by accident, but it’s easy to leave.” 

Rolling up her other sleeve so it matched the one she cut to tend to her wound, she pointed to a large marble building, now visible in the distance.  “That’s the Courthouse.  It lies in the city center, equally between Malum and Sanctus.  We’ll head there, you can eat, rest, whatever you’d like -” she paused, eyeing his wardrobe.  “And perhaps the magistrates can fetch you some clean clothing,” she said, noting the tattered state of his tunic.  “Then, I can get you on your way back to the mortal realm,” she said.  “Unless you’d rather find your own way out?” 

Even when the woman put away her dagger, Matteo kept his extended in front of him, not trusting anyone that could appear out of thin air in front of him without warning. Who could tell if she would blink behind him and try and gut him like a fish? Instead, he preferred to remain on guard, though, in deference, he lowered the blade a fraction, acknowledging that at least on the surface, she seemed to be showing signs of peace. “True, an explanation would go a long way at this stage, I should think. Please be sure and not pop around in the middle of it and try and get stabbed again, though.” He smiled a little and inclined his head but remained wary, circling slowly toward his dropped sword.

She was mad. That was all he could think to explain her claims to be one of the gods. Every illiterate child knew that the gods lived in a great hall above the World Tree and rarely ventured to meet the mortals of the continents. And here she was, standing and bleeding like a stuck pig, and claiming to be one of the divines. A mage of some great talent, sure, to create a world like this one above the world, but not one of the divinities of the Tree, for sure, he decided. And someone that mad had to be treated with extreme caution. “So this Malum place… marble, looks like. Must have cost a bloody great bit to get all up here in the air, eh? Or did you magic it about from nothing? It’s not exactly something I am used to, see, so I am a mite curious.” She was right, of course, that he had not arrived by choice, but it was clearly not divinity that gave her that insight, but simple reason. “Very true, Maintainer of Balance,” he said with all the politeness of his years in the Adelunan court, humoring her with the title, “I am not here by choice. I was running from a man that meant to take my life and, when my chest became tight and breathing painful, I leaned on an obelisk and arrived here without warning. I would very much like to return to my world, when you have a moment, of course.”

Joyful. Ha. What the woman did not seem to understand about even her own realm was that, Malum or Sanctus, he would have imagined killing the bastards than whipped him like an animal and looked to see him dead in the cramped, soot-black mineshafts of the Queen’s penal camp. “See, maybe your realm or what have you is a bit broken,” he said with a barking laugh. “Killing that pig-faced bastard was about all the joy I’ve felt since the Baron got me released.” She moved while he spoke, getting between him and his sword and he tensed, feeling the shooting pain in his shoulder as the muscles prepared themselves for action. Instead of striking him, she returned the sword and he took the hilt from her with a nod of his head. “Thank you,” he said simply, and sheathed both his blades, letting his hand rest on the sword’s hilt comfortably again. “Justiciar… quite a mouthful, but not so ponderous as the one who maintains or what have you. Dalanesca will do just fine. Matteo is my name, Matteo the Ostian as they would say in Adeluna. And the Courthouse sounds just lovely.”

He let himself be led to the building in the center of the city, between the halves, walking in wary silence. He still did not trust her readily and was prepared for whatever sort of trickery that could come next, or at least hoped that he was. When they arrived, he frowned at its appearance, recalling the obelisk that sent him hurtling into this madness. “I could use something to eat, I expect, seeing as I was pushed to miss a meal with a blade to my back, and a wash would be quite welcome if you could accommodate. As for the clothes… I would not be opposed to new ones, of course, but I want to keep those I have as well. A good reminder for me of times that I would rather forget but cannot afford to, you see.” He stretched his shoulder again, wincing at the pain. “But a bath might help loosen this shoulder. Whips with claws, you see, they tear up the flesh worse than a sword. Never heal properly, especially when you aren’t given aught but a scrap of cloth to bind it by way of medical care. Prisoners aren’t really given the highest standards of just about anything but savagery. There, though, we were treated like kings.” One of the magistrates was sent to ready what he needed and Matteo took that opportunity to walk into the room where the magistrate had indicated he could be accommodated.

Even before the door closed, he had unbuckled his belt and propped the blades alongside the bed within easy reach and stripped of his tattered tunic. He heard a half a gasp behind him and turned around quickly, one hand half-dragging his sword from its sheath before he saw it was Dalanesca. Then, chuckling, he remembered that most people did not expect to see a back like his, crossed and re-crossed with scars from the whips and canes of the mine guards. “Not a virgin inch left,” he said and patted his injured shoulder. “The bastard striped my back once a day at least, thinking to break me. Idiots, the lot. It just made me hate them, you see? And hate, it’s a powerful tonic. Kept me alive there when the whole thing should have killed me, and nearly did."

Dalanesca could easily see that this man was not going to trust her anytime soon.  She was not offended by this fact in the slightest - rather, she found this to be a good sign of the man’s intelligence.  Being too quick to trust someone - especially someone who had just appeared out of thin air - was often the downfall of many a man.  “I’ll try my best,” she said, though she suppressed an eye roll when he mentioned the earlier incident.  It had most certainly not been her intention to apparate in front of her sword, but accidents did happen and she was still getting used to the different abilities she had now.

Skepticism was quite apparent on the man’s face as she gave her explanation.  Although his lack of belief was frustrating to her, she could not blame him.  She knew that the words she spoke could most definitely seem a bit farfetched, especially given the circumstances.  “Neither,” she said, in response to his question about the creation of the realm.  “It’s really hard to explain, to be honest - and I know does not help my case in terms of explanation,” she said.  “When I, well, ascended, whatever it’s called - whatever it is that made me what I am now, I just kind of showed up here, and this is what was created,” she said.  She sensed the courtesy in his tone when he addressed her with a proper title, though she was unconvinced.  “Save the niceties.  I’ll get you back to the mortal plane, as I said I can,” she said, the tone of her voice flat.

“Broken, no,” she said, in response to his comment.  “I think not.  You may have felt joy, but it would have been joy laced with evil and darkness,” she added.  “And before you say anything - know that I’m neither.  I don’t care if you’re the darkest soul in existence, or the holiest of priests - I don’t judge.  I’m tasked with making sure there’s an equal amount of both,” she added.  “This realm gives people a taste of what they desire, to see if the consequences change their outlook on the scenario.”  She was quiet for a moment in contemplation.  “Problem solved - find him, and kill him.  Feel the joy it will bring you.”  Prison masters were a class that brought distaste to Dalanesca’s mouth.  It would be no skin off her back to see another put into the ground.

She answered his thanks with a quick smile.  “Glad we see eye to eye on that, at least,” she said, at the mention of using her given name rather than title.  “Fancy titles just seem irrelevant in personal moments,” she said.  “I’d hate it if I was never called Dalanesca.  Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Matteo.”  She turned, and began heading towards the courthouse.  “Come on, then,” she said, assuming he would follow her.

She nodded when he mentioned wanting a bit to eat, as well as welcoming the change of clothing, not turning to look back at him as she spoke in return. “Of course your own belongings will remain with you - it may be dirty, but it is yours,” she said.  “The magistrates can draw you a bath, and they’ll get you whatever you like.  Food, clothing, new weaponry… hell, need a horse for when you return to the mortal plane?  Just tell them.  They’ve got that power,” she said.  She winced a bit but said nothing at the mention of the whipping.  Having been on the receiving end of brutal punishment more times than she wished, it struck a nerve.

When they arrived, a magistrate immediately ushered Matteo into a nearby room.  Dalanesca paused outside the door for a brief moment in conversation with another magistrate, presumably instructing her to offer Matteo whatever he wished for.  She then stepped inside the room, not having expected he would have begun to undress so soon.  She had assumed he would have waited until the bath was drawn.  Matteo’s back was streaked top to bottom with jagged scars that could only be the result.  Her eyes instinctively scanned down, realizing he had removed not only his tunic, but his pants as well.  She made a small noise out of embarrassment for having walked in on him in this state.  She opened her mouth to apologize, slowly turning to walk back out of the room, but stopped when he began to speak to her.  It was obvious that he was not bothered by the situation in the slightest.  For her, it was not the nudity that bothered her, but rather the fact that she had inadvertently invaded his privacy.

“Looks like the did a number on you,” she commented at his explanation.  “Hate is, indeed, strong - strongest poison that won’t kill you,” she said.  “You lived through it, but now you want your revenge.”  She shrugged her shoulders.  “If you want revenge, get revenge.”  Her eyes unabashedly scanned his form again, and she stepped a bit further into the room.  It was a room designated for her invited guests - a bit nicer than the regular extra quarters she kept.  It contained a large marble bath basin, a fireplace, a bed, a few chairs and tables, and a window that overlooked the city center, allowing for a view of both Malum and Sanctus.  She walked to the edge of the bath basin, and sat upon it.  “Are you sure you want to return to the mortal plane?” she asked, her eyes resting on him again.  “I’m sure I could find some… use for you he-”

Just then, two magistrates appeared in the doorway, one holding an assortment of clothing, the other a large bucket of water.  Dalanesca stood, even though she had just sat down, and walked to the doorway.  “I’ll take those,” she said, taking the clothing from the magistrate.  Leaving the girl with a look of confusion, she walked towards the bed and set the clothes down.  She returned, reaching to take the water bucket as well.  The magistrate began to object.

“M’lady, please, I’m happy to attend to your gu-” The girl was unable to finish the words as Dalanesca flashed her a harsh gaze.

“I will do it myself,” she said, and took the bucket from her hands.  She walked to the fireplace, where a large pot hung over the fire.  After dumping the bucket into the pot, she turned back to look at the two magistrates who still stood in the doorway, as though awaiting orders.  “Why are you still here?” she asked, at which point the two hurried away.  She sat back on the edge of the wash basin, turning sideways and stretching her legs out in front of her, resting them on the stone, one on top of the other.

Looking back to Matteo, she gestured towards the fire.  “I’m assuming you’d rather not bathe in cold water,” she said.   As she spoke, she undid the ties at the neck of her tunic, pushing the fabric aside and down her should. to attest to the wound in her shoulder from where his sword had pierced her earlier.  She prodded at the wound, wincing only slightly.  “You’d be surprised how much being stabbed still hurts, even with the type of strength I have,” she said, with a bit of a laugh.  “Guessing you were going for the heart?” she asked.  She knew she was a bit smaller in height than the average woman, who was a bit smaller in height than an average male - the way the blow had landed indicated his aim.

She grew quiet, her gaze drifting towards the window, before falling back onto his face.  “So humor me.  This ‘pig-faced bastard’ you spoke of earlier.  What’s his name?  Where’s this prison?  Ideally, how would you like to exact your revenge?” she asked, a crooked smirk on her lips.  She was quite fond of hearing the plans of others - especially when it was a plan she could help carry out, if she desired.

“I have to return. I can’t very well kill those that did this to me from up here, now can I? Though I will say the accommodations are far superior to my last set of rooms. They were just a short step above my time in Her Majesty’s Camp for Wayward Boys.” He smiled and folded his patched trousers with exquisite care, remembering when the black fabric had been new and clean, well made enough to be worn in the presence of the Queen herself. It was a shame to see them brought so low but, he reflected, they, like he, still held together. So that would have to do. “And I will say the company is far better as well, though again, it’s not a high bar of comparison. Toothless crone and her husband are not the best dinner companions, though I admit, the woman had a talent for stews.”

“I am sorry for the wound, of course, as it was not my intention to stab you,” he replied as Dalanesca sat back on the tub while the water was heating over the fire. “And of course I was going for the heart. There isn’t much sense in stabbing a man if you aren’t about to kill him and by all the gods, I was ready to kill him.” He sat comfortably on the edge of the bed and smiled at her, not noticing that his nakedness could be considered improper. He was, as he saw it, in his chambers and did not need to worry and, at the same time, he had learned to put aside a great deal of modesty and social mores while he was a prisoner of the Crown. In the mines, delicacy of character and disposition was a weakness that ended in death or worse. “As for the bastard, he was one of the chief gaolers of Her Majesty’s less well known prisons. I am not sure exactly what it is called, as it does not officially exist in the sight of the Crown. Only those convicted of some of the more heinous crimes are sent there, by a small, secret court within the city proper. The justices are there as a formality, as any man that walks into the Black Chamber leaves only for the mines.

“Suffices to say that the mines themselves were outside the city proper. About two day’s travel to the North with a good horse, you will find mine shafts sunk deep into the earth and around them, a wall to rival any lord’s castle. Within those walls reside the gaolers and their charges, men like your humble servant. The gaolers are often former army men, some of the roughest sorts, and they take great delight in finding new and inventive ways to turn the lives of the prisoners into newer and more interesting versions of the nine hells. The fellow I was looking to filet there was one of the worst. Some of the guards were, rough, see, but to them it was simply a job. This man took delight in it as some men do with wine and others women. Our misery was his joy.”

Matteo noticed that the pot had heated properly and he took his tunic, rolled up, and used it to lift the hot cauldron from the hook over the fire and fill his bath. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said and slipped into the water with a contented sigh. Taking a cloth and the bar of Cittapashean soap from the side of the marble basin, he began to wash himself, cleaning off easily a month’s worth of grime and sweat as he meticulously scoured every inch of his body. “As for revenge, I am not a picky man, Dalanesca. I just want to put my sword through the man’s chest and watch the light leave his eyes, knowing that the last thing that man will see before he is plunged into an eternity of torment is my grinning face. I don’t believe that is too much to ask after what he made us go through, what he had us do down there. It wasn’t just the mining. That was bad enough, crapped and dirty, but he was worse. He pitted us against each other, played his favorites until a man grew so tired of their privilege that he killed them in the shafts, and then we would all suffer for it. He took more than just our liberty in that hell,” he said, his voice cold and detached as he scrubbed himself all the harder. “He took our dignity as well. We were no better than animals to him, for his amusement.”

“Now, though, enough about that.” Matteo splashed some of the warm water up at Dalanesca and chuckled. “If you’re joining me, you are far overdressed for the occasion and if you are not, I think it might be best if I get these new clothes sorted and get a bite to eat. In all this excitement, I skipped my morning meal and as a man accustomed to thin gruel followed by a beating, I have become rather attached to my meals now that they are made properly of food again.” He winked at her. “The choice, of course, is yours,” he said before sliding under the water, holding his breath and letting the water wash over him completely to free the last of the filth of his travels.

“Glad to know I am a bit higher on the scale than a toothless crone,” she said, raising an eyebrow.  It was becoming quite clear to her that Matteo’s sense of propriety he may have once held had been badly skewed in his time of confinement, yet she found no insult in it.  She actually found it rather refreshing that he seemed to be speaking with her just as he would with any other person. 

Dalanesca merely shrugged her shoulders as he apologized for her injury.  “Guess it’s a good thing I’m short,” she said in response.  “I’m not really sure what would happen to me if I were to be stabbed in the heart.  I don’t think I would die, but I’m assuming it would not be a swift recovery… and I would honestly rather not find out any time soon,” she added, laughing at bit.  She kept her eyes on him as he moved to sit down on the edge of his bed, though did not trail her gaze anywhere beneath his chest.  It seemed as though he was not concerned with the fact that he lacked any clothing, and she personally did not find it a concern, merely averting her eyes out of common respect.

She nodded in understanding as he explained who the man he had attempted to run through had been.  It made sense, why a man would imagine killing a man who had done such things would want his revenge.  She noticed, however, that while Matteo was thorough in explaining the process in which a man ended up in the mines, he left out the part on how he had ended up there.  She let him continue speaking, paying attention with full interest.  Her heart sank a bit as she thought of the absolute cruelty that she knew some men were capable of possessing, but she said nothing to reveal such thoughts.  “Sound like you had a bit of a rough go of it,” she said, though it was clear that she knew her words would not do justice to the truth.        

“Have at it,” she said, when he went to fill the tub.  She did not yet get up, instead averting her eyes for a moment as Matteo slipped into the water.  She glanced back at his face as he continued to speak while washing himself, noticing the change in intonation as he finished on the subject.

She raised an eyebrow, shifting to a standing position as he splashed water at her, managing to dodge most of it with only a portion of her tunic becoming damp.  His invitation drew a chuckle from her.  At one point in her life, she would have blushed and shied away from Matteo, having felt too proper to even be spoken to in that sense.  At another time, she would have readily shed her clothing and joined him in the tub.  But at this time, her thoughts drifted to another and she merely gave him a quick smile.  “While I appreciate the offer, I’ll have to pass at this time,” she said, heading towards the doorway.  “I think I would be in a bit of trouble if I were to join you,” she added, without further explanation.  “When you’re done, one of the magistrates can bring you some food, otherwise you’re welcome to join me for supper, if you wish.  There’ll be one outside your door, just let her know what you’d like,” she said.  “I don’t know that the magistrates would have the stomach to give you a beating after your meal, though,” she quipped,  and stepped out the door.

After a moment, she poked her head back in.  “Either way, we should talk a bit more before I send you back,” she added.  “I think I might be able to be of a bit of assistance to you,” she said, an impish glint shining in her dark eyes.  With that, she turned and walked down the hallway to her sitting room, where she would take a supper of her own.