Stealth and Witchcraft 2: Neo Vigilante Cp.18

Sophie had just finished folding the last patchy garment, when Gwenevere came bursting through the doorway of the hovel.

"Basso! I need to speak with you!" she exclaimed, still panting from her bout of vigorous running.

"Christ kid! Don't get yer ponytail in a knot," the boxman chuckled, pulling himself free of his chair. He approached the flustered nymph, and straightened his top hat. "Now. What do ya need to talk to uncle Basso about, eh?" He grinned.

Gwenevere was still at a loss for breath, her eyes wide with an intensity Sophie hadn't seen all too often in her features. This, immediately set her mind to concerned mother mode.

"Sweetheart, what happened?" Sophie demanded, rather gently. She approached the little nymph, visibly unnerved by her constant panting and quivering. Noticing how worried both Basso and his sister were, Gwenevere fought to compose herself. It wasn't easy.

Someone out there, was in such danger, that they had to call for help via a secret message. Gwenevere knew she couldn't fail them!

Focus on the people. It's all about the people...

After repeating her slightly altered version of Garrett's mantra for a few moments, she took a deep lungful of stuffy bachelor air, and faced the siblings with a firm grimace fastened across her delicate face.

"I received a letter from my friends earlier today. It spoke of a Castella--and it sounded like they were in a lot of trouble. Do you know of any Castellas Basso?" The boxman acquired a guilty look upon his somber face. Sophie noticed this, and frowned.

"Basso?" she called upon him as if he were a small boy caught in a lie. "What's that face? Do you know something?"

"Eh-heh-heh, you...could say that," Basso released an uncomfortable laugh, followed by an incredibly awkward smile.

"Well?" Sophie prodded. That sent her brother back into his seat. He began twiddling his thumbs.

"I...sorta peeked at the letter," he admitted. Making eye contact with Gwenevere, his face grew guilty again. "Sorry kid."

Both Gwenevere and Sophie, were noticeably outraged.

"Basso?! Why would you do such a thing?" Sophie retorted, far more enraged than the nymph. While Gwenevere was indeed both shocked and angry, she was far more curious as to why her trusted friend would do such a thing.

"Basso. How could you?" Was all she could manage. The boxman sighed hard, looking down at his feet.

"I noticed that there wasn't any return address, alright? Forgive this old taffer if he got just the slightest bit suspicious and er...overprotective..." he muttered, clearly very embarrassed.

Sophie smiled empathetically. Silently, she understood why he had intercepted the letter--and she knew that in his shoes, she would have done the same thing. Gwenevere glanced around the room, her eyes locking onto the stubby light yellow candle that the boxman always kept atop his desk. She grinned mischievously.

"Yellow wax...oh, I get it now!" Before he could react, Basso found that he had been pinned back into his seat by one of Gwenevere's famously overpowering hugs. He felt his body relax, and he slowly hugged her back.

"Hey there, easy does it kid," he smiled.

"You really are such a great guy Basso," Gwenevere sniffed. Sophie watched on, shaking her head ever so slightly.

"So, my brother dearest, did the letter have anything in it to validate this tampering of yours, hmmm?" Sophie crossed her arms.

Gwenevere still wrapped around his neck, Basso made a face at his sister.

"Well, Castella, Soph. Need I say more?" he sneered.

"What about the Castellas?" Sophie asked grimly. Gwenevere finally released the boxman from her clutches, and cocked her head at him.

"You mean there's more than one of them?" She asked.

"Well, yes sweetie," Sophie smiled lovingly. "They're a family. A rich and powerful one at that."

"Which is exactly why I feel justified in pokin' through her letter!" Basso groused. Gloria cawed as he once again stood from his squeaky wooden chair. Making his way back over to his closet again, Basso resumed the searching he'd been doing earlier that day.

"Basso?" Gwenevere craned her head to the other side this time.

"Ah-ha! Found'ja you cheeky little bugger!" The boxman guffawed, pulling out a faded and torn small book. He slammed it down onto his desk, sending dust scattering in all directions. Basso opened the volume, and flipped through a few yellowed pages, before his finger came to rest on a rather large manor layout.

"That, be the Castella Mansion in Dayport. Course, this map is almost ten years old, so they might have changed a few things. Torn down a few birdbaths, added a study 'er two, ya know?"

Gwenevere leaned over the book, studying the map very closely. Sophie approached, and placed a concerned palm on the nymph's shoulder.

"Sweetie? Is everything okay?"

"Yes. I'm just wondering if I even need a map," she responded.

"What?!" The siblings shouted in unison. Gwenevere looked from Sophie to Basso, then blinked.

"What?" She shrugged. Sophie was the one to answer, her face pale and disbelieving.

"Gwenevere. You need a map, dear. You can't just go waltzing in by the front door," she joked. Gwenevere was not amused.

"Well, why not? They called out to me for help. I see no need to encroach on their privacy, when they invited me!"

"Maybe because, this is startin' ta sound a bit like a trap, Gwennie?" Basso raised an eyebrow at her words.

"I-I'm not so sure of that. It sounded more to me like someone was really desperate!"

"Yeah, desperate to collect the bounty on yer head!" Basso countered, his tone growing harsh.

"I'll be fine, Basso. I'm taking Derick Garrison with me, just to be safe," Gwenevere argued, staring him down. It was indeed amusing, since she was quite a bit shorter than the scraggly pauper.

"What the hell is he gonna do?! One Hammerite ain't gonna be enough ta protect ya from an ambush, kiddo," the boxman reasoned.

Gwenevere mulled over that statement for several seconds. It was true--this could very well be a trap. But if someone was in so much danger, what choice did she really have in the end? Even if Gwenevere brought along her entire band of merry thugs, they would still be outnumbered in such a scenario. The nymph gave a decisive nod, and began to smile.

If someone was in trouble, this was a risk that needed to be taken.

"Thank you--to both of you. But this is something that I vowed to do. I promised that I would help everyone in this city who needed me. If someone needs me, I have to go. I have to try."

Sophie stood firm, but couldn't help but notice the maturity and dedication brimming within Gwenevere's woodsie green eyes. Taking a deep breath, she cleared her thoughts, and did her best to banish all concerns.

"Gwenevere," she began, "you're absolutely right."

"Sophie..." Basso started, his jaw hanging open. His younger sister faced him.

"When I was the Black Alley Angel, I had to take chances too. I had to risk my life in order to protect and save the lives of those I cared for the most. That is the call of all vigilantes. The wolves and danger are always a constant--always gnawing and snarling at our backs in the darkest of hours. But if we don't take these risks...if we don't fight for what is right...who will?"

Both Basso and Gwenevere were visibly touched by her proclamation. Gwenevere bit her lip as a few tears began to congregate within the corners of her wide eyes. Sophie had always accepted her, always understood her. Although she did not realize it, Sophie had become an inspiration to the young nymph. A wise matriarch who held both comfort and answers when Gwenevere was at her most vulnerable and clueless.

"I have so much faith in you, Gwenevere. I would never have passed down my old dagger if I didn't think you had what it took to succeed me."

"Thank you, Sophie. Thank you for believing in me," the little nymph nodded, her face brimming with pride.

"Oh, by the way..." Sophie began, her tone suddenly light and jovial again. "I was wondering--when was the last time you spoke to Garrett?"

Both Basso and Gwenevere acquired disconcerted expressions upon their unsuspecting faces.

"Sophie?! What the taff--" Basso began. A dark glare from his sister, silenced him however.

"Sophie? W-why would you ask that?" Gwenevere stammered.

"Because dear. It's important that you understand why he did what he did," Sophie encouraged the young vigilante to keep an open mind.

"I do," the nymph snarled. "He's a selfish taffing jerk!" Sophie gaped at her words, and Basso couldn't help but snicker in spite of his better judgement.

"Gwenevere, don't say such things! He thinks the world of you!" Sophie hollered, her eyes wide and desperate.

"Then why did he send me away?!" Gwenevere cried out, the tears leaving her eyes as thick as blood. "Why did he leave me?!"

"He didn't leave you Gwenevere--you, left him. If I know the story correctly, you ran off into the forest the night he dismissed you as an apprentice. He didn't want to be rid of you, Gwenevere. He just didn't want you risking your neck out there anymore. Maybe he butchered the wording, as per usual dear, but trust me--Garrett was honestly and truly just trying to do right by you in his own way."

Gwenevere just glowered up at the boxman's sister. A part of her didn't want to believe this truth, and another part of her longed to with all of her soul. But above all else, Gwenevere didn't want to be hurt again. And she knew that seeing Garrett, in any case, would result in just that. She had her cause now, and with the seeds growing ever faster, the nymph vigilante didn't think she had time for such dalliances with a thief anymore. In truth, Gwenevere was avoiding Garrett, in order to focus fully on her work. It pained her to do so, but it was necessary. He, had taught her so.

"That's probably the case," she began, "but Garrett has to understand that I have my own purpose now. I'm not just his possession anymore. I have an obligation to The City, Sophie!"

"Yes, I understand that dear. But don't you think that Garrett should be the one to hear this?" Sophie countered.

Gwenevere cleared her throat, mulling over these words for a moment.

"I'll talk to him then--after, I finish helping whoever sent that letter."

Sophie frowned. It was at least something, but Gwenevere's words troubled her deeply. It seemed to the older woman, that Gwenevere was growing stoic and cold--unnaturally so. The nymph she knew, was quick to forgive. If this was all just a simple misunderstanding, why was Gwenevere holding so passionately to that grudge?

"That's all I ask, dear. Thank you," Sophie smiled.

"Tell him I'll meet him at the bell tower in three days," the vigilante instructed coldly.

"Of course dear. I think he'll be happy to hear that."

Years later, the nymph would never be able to understand, nor pinpoint just what had prompted her next actions. Such decisions were as spontaneous as nature--and just as beautiful. Taking a hesitant little step forward, Gwenevere reached out for Sophie's hand and stared up into her with a pleading hopefulness dancing within her green eyes, as fanciful as an enchanted gale.

"Sophie?" she started, her voice hitched and trembling.

"Yes, Gwenevere?"

"Can I call you mom?" The words left her mouth in an almost surreal fashion. Her tongue felt numb as she spoke them, but her heart was true.

Sophie's own eyes grew wide, and breath caught in her frail neck. There were no words for what followed--just actions. The older woman tearfully embraced the orphaned woodsie god-spawn as lovingly as a young child. Sophie shuddered, allowing the tears to finally break free and flow down her face. She had already accepted Gwenevere as her own daughter months ago, but this request somehow validated everything she had felt for that girl. Everything she had done and experienced since Gwenevere had come into her life under such curious circumstances. Wanting to be a thief.

Now, she was so much more than just a petty and greedy criminal. Through her works around The City, Gwenevere had become a beacon of hope and progress. Though she did not realize it, this little being of empathy and love, had become a hero.

"Of course you can, my precious child," Sophie choked on her own words, and she clung even tighter to the nymph.

***

CASTELLA MANSION
THREE HOURS LATER:

It had been a good while since Derick Garrison found himself braying so persistantly upon a noble's door. After his rather uncomfortable meeting with Lady Lilithia months earlier, needless to say the Hammerite wasn't experiencing the best of emotions at that particular moment. But she was there with him, standing as vigilant as any of his brethren. Gwenevere had become his fellow crusader in lieu of those whom he'd left behind. Although she shared very few of his religious beliefs, they were in agreement where it mattered--a desire for change.

Gwenevere had proven herself a reliable and loyal, albeit naïve individual. But her naivety was lessening with each passing day, and it was interwoven with these other virtues, so he didn't allow such flaws to bother him. People weren't wood, and they weren't metal. The Hammerites had taken their beliefs and comparisons to an unrealistic degree, as Derick now realized. If anything, humans were an incredibly unstable material. If the order had taught him anything, it was that the unstable materials required the most patience and time to shape. In hindsight, Derick wondered how such glaring observations had been overlooked by the others for so many centuries. Had they really strayed so far?

While Gwenevere wasn't metal in the slightest, her resemblance to wood would one day render these thoughts uncomfortably ironic. He had no delusions to her own spiritual affinities--Derick was almost completely sure that like Ayeena, this girl was a Pagan supporter. These first impressions of Gwenevere, were underestimated to a ludicrous degree--as the soul-searching Hammerite was soon to discover.

So as they stood there beneath that almost intimidating obsidian archway, the Hammer smiled down at Gwenevere, knowing that he had her back. Derick Garrision, had been an orphan--his brothers at arms, were the closest thing he'd ever had to siblings. But he had never known anything reminiscent of a sister, the way he did now. The Anvils were rarely allowed contact with the armed crusaders--except when necessary. They remained in the cloister, preparing meals and reciting prayer. Hammerites were forbidden from even speaking to any Anvil during their novice period, and were actually subservient to them.

It was a strange and ill-focused hierarchy, in which the women retained little respect--despite their devotion and hard work unto The Builder being equal to that of their crimson-clad male compatriots. Centuries had passed, yet no Anvil had ever been sainted, knighted, or the like. There had never been a Hammerite High Priestess, nor even a simple alter girl. These ancient and highly sexist practices, were yet another unfortunate aspect of the Hammerite faith, which Derick Garrison strived to change.

DING-DONG!! Gwenevere pressed her tiny finger into the door bell again, a soft sigh escaping from her lips.

"Mayhaps the safecracker drunkard was correct. Mayhaps we shouldst have infiltrated thy dwelling," Derick grumbled.

"Derick, I know it's a Hammer thing," Gwenevere hesitated, "but could you please try to refer to my friends and family by their names, rather than their crimes?"

"I shalt try, m'lady."

After several more conflicted and tense moments, a faint whisper called from behind the large oak door like the coo of a frantic dove.

"Are...are you she? T-the One-Eyed Pirate Queen?" The delicate voice was positively seething with desperation. Gwenevere could envision the speaker; quaking and sweltering on the other side of the doorframe. The image made her fearful--eager to help.

"I am. May we come in?" The nymph nodded, trying to sound both serious, and gentle--which wasn't easy.

A brief silence enraptured the quivering words and sobs.

"We? Who is that other person?" The voice piped up after several moments.

"My name is Derick Garrison, ma'am," the Hammerite gave a short yet courteous bow.

"Bluecoats?! NO BLUECOATS!!" The voice grew wild and shrill, almost resembling that of a dying animal.

"Miss, please!" Gwenevere tried frantically to calm her, "this is a Hammerite, and he's not even affiliated with the order at the moment!"

More silence, accompanied by loud shudders and whimpering. Eventually, the giant door creaked open. It was almost pitch black inside, save for a dim hallway, lined with dozens of candles. Gwenevere felt as tension and nausea rose within her slender throat. Something wasn't right. Derick Garrison, sensed it too. He stepped out in front of her, a look of intent blazing within his eyes like an infernal forge.

Things were about to get incredibly violent and loud, when a fine-boned woman slunk into view. She was fair, positively beautiful. Her long hair was done up into a neat bun, and it bore the color of burnt honey. Her long ball gown billowed and rippled like a goldfish tail with every step she took, though her large brown eyes remained helpless and terrified. She extended an almost bony hand out in front of her face, as if shielding herself from an unseen threat. At that moment, Derick decided against brandishing his large hammer.

"Please...please forgive my hostility, my odd behavior; everything that has you so wary of me," she stared up into Gwenevere's eyes, her face one of lost hope. "Just please, come in. Do it quickly."

Gwenevere looked up at Derick, who gave her an accepting nod. The nymph pawed at her rabbit fur pouch, readying herself for a swift attack if necessary. The Hammerite wrapped his arm protectively around Gwenevere's upper back, and fist still clenched around his pommel, the two vigilantes entered the Castella Mansion. What awaited them from there, would be nothing short of a most grueling and emotional trial.

***

Upon entering that mansion, Gwenevere was mentally prepared for anything. A trap. A horde of well-armed bluecoats, ready to apprehend the infamous One-Eyed Pirate Queen. Even a bear-bating tap dancer wouldn't have surprised her. What she didn't expect, was a neatly tended den, and a man in absolute shambles sobbing on the sofa. His hair was a stringy, greasy mess--he looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks. Beneath the rigid, furrowing brow, all Gwenevere could make out were his trembling hands as they cradled his sobbing face. He was whimpering and shaking like a beaten dog. The woman from before, motioned in his direction, and tears soon flooded her own eyes.

"This is my husband, Lord Castella. I, am Lady Castella. Forgive our inhospitable greeting, dear. But we aren't of the mind to have guests and pleasantries at the moment."

"What's going on?" Gwenevere asked, half concerned, and half greatly befuddled.

Lady Castella fought to keep her emotions level, as she joined her near-catatonic husband on the sofa. He somehow managed to cease his crying as she put her hand on his knee, allowing Gwenevere to finally see his face. It was just as twisted and forlorn as one might imagine--the disheveled, helpless expression of a man who'd lost all hope.

Gwenevere stepped forward, her bright red hair shaded a deep burgundy by the chilling darkness. The last glimmer of morning light gently flooded in through the stained glass, turning her alabaster skin a light hue of cerulean. Given her first impressions of the place, the Castellas certainly had fine tastes. The area she and Derick now found themselves in was decorated with oil paintings, icy blue silk curtains, and palms growing out of oversized silver pots. There were three large stained glass windows, which covered most of the left wall. A white door stood between the furthest window, and a potted palm.

Every wall was done up in a lavish rococo wallpaper, and the furniture was unlike any other Gwenevere had ever seen in a nobles' home before. Almost twisted; too fancy. An elegant and exotic design, wherein comfort had been evicted in place of aesthetics. First a monolithic domed archway made of pure obsidian--now this. She was truly out of her element, and speaking directly to 'the enemy', only irritated the already fragile situation. Feeling Derick's hand still firmly around her did help, but only barely. This was all just too strange. A grown man weeping like a child, and a woman too terrified to even breathe properly.

What exactly was going on within this pretty little palace?!

"I received your letter via my contacts, Miss Castella," Gwenevere began, never taking her eyes off of the forlorn couple, "since your letter was so vague, I must ask--what is it exactly that you want from me?"

Lady Castella gradually made eye contact with the concerned little creature, her breath catching in her throat.

"Forgive me again, miss?" She tried several names out in her mind, but none seemed particularly complimentary.

"Gwenevere. You can call me Gwenevere," the nymph rolled the words off her tongue like sticky toffee. Derick shot her a dubious glance, not entirely comfortable with her reveal. But Gwenevere, appeared content with it.

"F-forgive me, miss Gwenevere. The equivocalness of my message was imperative to the survival of my dear sweet Jeremy," Lady Castella wiped a single, oily tear from the side of her face.

"Your dear sweet Jeremy?" Gwenevere questioned, squinting her eyes in bewilderment.

"Our," Lord Castella corrected in a blubbery voice. It was the first word he had spoken, not just to Gwenevere--but in three days. "Jeremy, is our son. He was kidnapped on his way home from the Auledale Institute for Brilliant Young Men. We...don't know who else to turn to..."

"How do you know your son has been abducted?" Derick asserted himself into the melancholy conversation.

Gwenevere watched as Lady Castella visibly shook. Her hand was shivering so violently, that it nearly knocked the small silver bell from the table as she went to use it. However, she did succeed in ringing for her servant, if only barely. The young vigilante heard a rustle, and twinged in uncertainty as the silver doorknob began to turn. With a click, the door opened and an elderly man walked inside.

"At once, Madam Castella," the butler spoke thoughtfully, as he approached one of the windows with a green watering can and sprinkled the thirsty palm.

Gwenevere noticed that he was missing his left arm; a cybernetic replacement in its place. She fought to keep herself from staring at the unique contraption, although from what she did see, it was clear that the replacement was not of industrial make.

"No Curtis. Leave the plants for another day," Lady Castella corrected, more fear escaping that false and poised expression of hers with every passing second.

Curtis ceased his watering and looked up at her. A near toothless smile graced his wrinkled face when he noticed Gwenevere and her Hammerite comrade.

"Are these to be master Jeremy's saviors then?" he asked, almost amused.

"What is left of him, possibly," Lord Castella croaked, his face turning white. "Bring it in."

The elder's eyes lit up with the first spark of jubilation the dreary household had experienced in quite some time. He nearly groveled over to where Gwenevere was standing, with jaunty, yet almost crippled steps. He stopped just in front of her, and leaned forward. Gwenevere could smell the rather pungent odor of medical ointment and cheap cologne.

"He told me that you'd come! The Cloven Liar--he told me!" He winked at her.

The nymph took a concerned step backwards, pressing her body firmly against her Hammerite bodyguard. Her pupils dilated in abject hysteria at the mention of her father. How had he recognized her as a nymph so easily? And how in The Green had this unassuming little human pinpointed her as one of His? It was impossible--this man was most likely mad, and Gwenevere knew this. Talk of gods and how they spoke to such unworthy simpletons was a common claim amongst the batty. Yet, an icy hand had gripped ahold of the back of her neck, and it told a different story.

She locked eyes with the seemingly deranged butler, trying desperately to decipher if there was more madness or truth behind his lucid stare. His mentality was far too cloudy to tell for sure, but his irises seemed to reflect sincerity. Gwenevere shuddered, wondering just how much power her fallen forebear indeed held from beyond the rift of time and dimensions.

Mad. Perhaps, but perhaps not. While Curtis had indeed identified her truthfully, the little nymph took solace in the fact that his conservative masters would probably never believe such claims. This, was best--for everyone involved. Viktoria had once mentioned that some humans had a special link to the wild world. A gift from the Trickster left over from the days when their ancestors still worshipped him; frolicking and whooping amongst his forests and bonfires without care. She stated that they could no longer remember such a time, but it remained forever locked within them still. And sometimes, it allowed them to see the secrets forbidden to most mortals.

Derick felt the discomforted vibe from her almost immediately, and he got the message. He stepped forcefully between nymph and crazed butler. Lady Castella, was forced to intercept the confrontation.

"Oh for pity's sake Curtis! Just show them the bloody package," a most poor choice of curses exited her mouth, causing Lord Castella to once again recoil into his depression.

"Yes, madam," the butler smirked, casting Gwenevere and Derick one last wicked grin before exiting that most lackluster gathering place.

"You'll need to forgive him, my dear," Lady Castella began again upon noticing the way Gwenevere continued to cower and squirm in wake of Curtis's odd departure. "Old Curtis went mad several years ago. But we couldn't find it within our hearts to ship him off to that ill-forsaken madhouse."

Yes, I completely understand. It would be more humane to send him into The Maw... Gwenevere couldn't help but think to herself.

She managed to nod weakly in agreement, as the horrendous screams and sights of the various insane asylums she frequented with Simmons burned across her mind like a relentless wildfire. What she had seen...what the demon within her had done...In spite of her lack of control, her complete and total helplessness at the feet of that wicked relic. No matter what the reasons had been, Gwenevere would never consider herself innocent, nor cleansed.

Some things, could simply never be forgiven.

Lady Castella, at least saw that she understood, despite her lack of words.

"So I am dreadfully sorry if our butler unnerved you, dear. But please," her voice grew dire and hopeful once more, "please do not allow his quirky behavior to diminish your interest in saving my son!"

Before either Gwenevere nor Derick could respond, Curtis returned with a small wooden box. Both of the Castella seniors cringed, and for a moment Gwenevere was sure that Lady Castella was on the verge of fainting. However, by the grace of whatever unnamed deity, she managed to maintain her composure. The butler practically shoved the dark wooden container into Gwenevere's awaiting hands. There was no note within the box, but rather a straightforward message--and one that caused Gwenevere's mind and heart to synonymously plummet into her icy stomach.

Inside the box, there was a bloody mess of what looked like paper pulp, and something truly rancid. It violated her flaring nostrils with a pungent aroma of meat and copper. That stench the little nymph had come to revile--that once curious bouquet that had flooded the halls of her father's deceitful funhouse, the smell that wafted from her mother's mane every time she would kiss Gwenevere goodnight.

Human remains. No doubt about it. Gwenevere's eyes narrowed as she spotted the message, 'GO TO THE WATCH, AND THERE WON'T BE ANYTHING LEFT' crudely carved into the wooden lid. Derick subconsciously gripped the young girl's shoulders, fearing for her welfare. He glared back towards the broken couple, visibly demanding to know why on earth they deemed it correct to present a bloody box of torn flesh and severed fingers to such a young, and innocent girl.

But it was Gwenevere's reaction to all of this, which startled him most of all. She held onto that box, completely unfazed. Her expression was not one of horror, nor disgust. It was concentrated tenacity. Focused, and readied rage. She gently pulled the lid back over the gristly package, and faced the Castellas.

"Your boy may very well still be alive," she spoke in a calm, reassuring sort of voice, which the Hammer had never heard out of her before. "They didn't remove enough of his features to kill him--so long as his captors have properly applied pressure to the injuries."

The directness of her words, only caused the worried parents to grow completely hysterical. The thought of their son being butchered and mangled was simply just too much.

"Oh my...no...nononono....NO!!!" Lady Castella screeched like a ferocious banshee. She thrashed against the sofa, and began clawing at her own arms and face in some insane attempt to punish herself for what had happened to her baby boy. Her husband leaned forward, and tried his best to hold her steady, but to little avail.

"Was your son kidnapped for money?" Derick tried, in a desperate attempt to get some answers out of her before she passed out.

"OF COURSE HE WAS!" A brutalized Lady Castella screamed again, her vision blurry from tears and painful desperation.

"Then, he is most certainly still alive!" The Hammerite continued. "So long as you have not tarried too long in seeking aid."

"The inside of the box had a warning," Gwenevere added firmly. "Is this what took you so long to seek help? Is this why you sent me that secret code instead?"

"Yes," Lady Castella sniffed, finally having contained her maternal outburst. "Without the aid of the proper law, we were hoping that this so-called 'savior of the people' could assist. You're our little Jeremy's only hope."

"Just how old is your 'little' Jeremy anyway?" Derick inquired, crossing his arms. "You said he attended the Auledale Institute for Brilliant Young Men. That is a boarding school for adolescents of their fifteenth year and older."

"He is nineteen--a late bloomer if you will," Lord Castella weakly joked.

"Haven't you received any sort of amount, or ransom note?" Gwenevere wondered aloud.

"We did," Lord Castella croaked, "but we thought it was a jape of his! A-a way of getting back at us--at our money."

"We recently cut him off, you see. Part of his 'blooming' experience," Lady Castella added, taking a sip of her cold tea.

"What exactly did the letter say?" Derick pressed.

"It...it said that he had been abducted. That we were to pay a man named Ignious Smith fifty-thousand gold before September. We thought enrollment within the institute would mold Jeremy; make him more mature. We pampered him with far too much gushing praise and freedom in his younger years, you see," the lady of the house defended.

"But instead, he's been captured from that dreadful place," Lord Castella chimed in, wailing. "He never wanted to learn, never wanted to go there! Oh if only we'd allowed him to freely partake in his privilege and lifestyle!"

"Your son was made a target no doubt due to your standing and wealth, Lord Castella," the Hammerite replied. His face grew firm. "However, these 'pranks' he pulls, sound like little more than cruel and irresponsible lies. Had he been taught proper etiquette and respect, and proper punishment instilled from a young and pliable age, then mayhaps your lad wouldn't have been such an easy target."

Gwenevere gawked up at him--they all did. But Derick Garrison remained adamant in his intent to teach these parents a very important tenant. Hammerite or not, they had built up their boy all wrong--and now he was slowly paying for it.

"Ignious Smith knows where your boy is. We get to him, we get to Jeremy," the nymph blurted, eager to shift the conversation from this most unsettling turn.

"We already know where he is!" Lady Castella cleared her throat, visibly irritated with Derick Garrision's undesired holy lecture.

"Where?" Gwenevere pressed, her tone both respectful and urgent.

"The message I credited, spoke of the old foundry on West Brownstone," the irate father concluded.

Gwenevere looked up at her partner, an intensity radiating within her celadon eyes like lightning. Derick Garrison, placed both fists against his chest and bowed slowly. He was ready to follow her into the heat of danger and battle; ready to rescue this upstart young man. They both knew where they needed to go--and what needed to be done.

"Fear not, Lord and Lady Castella--we'll get your boy back!" Gwenevere winked.