<HTML> 12/27 - 11pm Baron Calephas was wretchedly cold.  Night had long since fallen on the Glen, and inside his wooden cell all pretensions of warmth had fled, leaving him shivering in the thick wool that he had worn when venturing to the Bridge.  At the very least they had left him his clothes, otherwise he would probably have died from the chill by now.  As it was he was hard pressed to believe that he would not die anyway under the lack of care the Glenners provided. He had heard the muffled sounds of footfalls an hour earlier moving past the tree in which he had been imprisoned; a great number of them passing him by.  Certainly Lord Avery had to have set set his men on their expedition to Metamor by now.  If he were to follow through with his hastily conceived plan, he would have to act swiftly.  And so he slowly stood, the cold stiffening his joints and biting through his garments the moment he unfolded himself.  He paced his cell, rubbing his arms firmly as he paced, working up a particular need - as well as keeping his body warm - and talked to his jailer. The guard outside the door was a rather robust wolf morph though his belly could have benefited from less alcohol.  He did his best to ignore Calephas's barbs though the Baron could hear him growl under his breath into the chill wind.  This sign only emboldened the master of Arabarb, prompting him to describe in detail how he had seduced one particular page boy back in his father's manor.  It had been his very first and he had been rather clumsy at it, but he told nothing of that to the wolf, gushing with voracious detail about the event, and how the boy had cried against his bonds at the climax. "Shut up you sick bastard," the wolf snarled, banging his sword point against the bars of the iron door. Calephas laughed at that. "Oh, I assure you I'm no bastard, I was born legitimately from my father's loins. Though I did have a few half-brothers.  In fact, the youngest was quite handsome.  I remember that on his eighth birthday I gave him such a lovely present, though he wasn't quite as eager as I'd hoped.  Eight times I gave it to him, for being eight years old.  I thought it a fair gift.  Would you care to hear about it?" "I said shut up!" the wolf barked, his eyes gone red with disgust. The Baron, however, went right ahead and began to tell the story, ignoring the guard's angry demands, omitting not a single detail, describing the boy's cries as he made each thrust.  He noted the way the knots were tied that held him secure to the bed, and remarked upon how long the sobs continued even after he had finished and let the boy recover from his exuberance.  Throughout the tale the wolf only growled louder, though he set his back firmly to the door, doing his best not to give Calephas any pleasure. The Baron took every opportunity he could to find pleasure, as it was necessary.  Stepping close to the iron door he peered out into the dark of the frigid night and, though he could only see the vague outlines of the wolf's form, it was enough. "My, I must say, your children must be quite lovely.  After all, you're a delightful specimen.  I certainly wouldn't mind taking one of your boys to bed and exploring further." As he said this he uncinched the belt at his waist and let his trousers fall to the floor, exposing his legs and groin to the bitterly cold wind.  The wolf turned about and snarled at him from between the bars as he had hoped, crying out for him to be quiet.  What he found, rather than silence, was the warm stream of the Baron's piss splashing across his muzzle and spilling down his nose. Spluttering with rage the lupine guard jammed the keys into the lock as he snatched his sword from its sheath with his other paw.  Calephas slammed his shoulder into the door the moment the bolt was pulled, throwing the heavy iron outwards against the enraged wolf, smacking it into his head.  Kicking his pants to one side he jumped out into the bitter snow and dived onto his jailer. The wolf, startled at the ferocity of the sudden attack, tried to bring the sword across.  His muzzle was bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth as one of his long canines had been knocked from his muzzle and was lying in the scarlet snow.  The Baron was faster for all of his chill.  He kicked the wolf's sword arm aside and snatched the dagger at the wolf's hip from its sheath, then plunged it into the thick mail covering the guard's chest.  Crimson stickiness spread from the wound and the Glenner gaped in horror, the sword falling limply from his paw as blood welled from his throat, choking off his agonised howl.  He coughed a few more moments, glaring at the Baron with hate in his eyes, before he finally lay still and lifeless. Baron Calephas retrieved his trousers and pulled them back up over his legs, tying them tight. Returning to the dead wolf he scanned about the Glen to see if there were any others about.  Though his eyes were not very good, he did not hear any tocsin raised, so assumed that he had yet to be discovered.  With quick fingers he undid the straps holding the wolf's leather mail in place, swiftly stripping the wolf of his armour.  The shirt was ruined, drenched in blood as it was, and Calephas cut it away.  The breeches, though, were just large enough to fit him despite his lack of a tail and greater height. With the extra warmth around his legs, Calephas set to slicing his enemy's bowels open.  Years living in Arabarb had taught him to contain his stomach, as he'd had to do this to many different animals.  With precision he sliced the layer of fat from the skin and began to squeeze it between his fingers.  It was warm, but would not be for much longer. Grimacing, the Baron began to wipe the fatty mucus across his woollen shirt, rubbing it hard and deep, letting the oil sink into the material.  It smelled acrid and foul, but he cared not, reaching into the stomach cavity for even once he had finished with the first handfull.  By the time he had completely coated his shirt in the muck, the snow had begun to cover the body. Certain that his warmth was assured, he unfastened the wolf's buckler and placed it around his own waist.  He then wiped the dagger off in the snow and sheathed it at his side.  He considered the sword, but after a moment's thought left it behind.  If the Glenners tracked him it would be of no use to him anyway.  Brushing a bit of the snow from his oiled shoulders, he set off at a quick trot, heading North through the woods.  He could not be thankful enough for taking the time to thoroughly memorize the maps of this region. As he left the environs of Glen Avery, picking an easy trail through the snow, he turned his mind back to the guard.  With a bit of whimsy he wondered whether the lupine even had any children. *** "What's going on?" Misha asked harshly. "Why aren't they dead?"    The man in front of the fox morph was tall knight who couldn't have been more then twenty years old. The elaborate heraldic design on the tabard he wore marked him as a knight of high noble birth. Misha knew he wasn't from Metamor. He vaguely recognized the rampant Griffin emblem as being from a Tourell noble house. The man's armor was still shiny and devoid of any scratches or dent. Most likely he was a second born son sent out to gain glory, fame and experience.    "My Lord," the knight said, bowing deeply. "I am Sir Roark of Brigston Manor. And those foul beasts are held up in a group of rooms."    "I'm aware of that," the fox interrupted. "This is a castle, there are thousands of rooms and only forty Lutins."   "Yes Sir, I know that," the knight said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "But there is a problem. The have hostages."    The fox went stiff. "Are you sure?"    "Yes sir. When we charged them they put a Keeper in the doorway."    The Long scout muttered something under his breath. "Have they said anything?"    "The Lutins want safe passage back north," the knight replied.    "Not surprising," Finbar said walking up to the two. "What do we do?"    "We talk," Misha answered. ******************    The doorway had been barricaded with a motley collection of chairs, tables, desks, and whatever else that happened to be laying around. There was no sign of any Lutins.    "All right," Misha said out loud from a corner some ten feet away. Beside him was Finbar and the knight. "This is Misha Brightleaf."    A green head appeared briefly over the edge of an up turned table and then disappeared. A moment later a lutin stood up in plain view. The fox noted that this lutin was dressed in chain mail armor that  was covered with various bits of leather, metal, feathers, fingers, ears and other body parts, some human, some animal, many lutin in nature, many others unidentifiable. Misha realized that this lutin was an important person, a sub chief at least.    "What you want?" the lutin asked.    "I want to see your head hanging from the Keep gates," Misha answered. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you all."    The lutin nodded to his left and a figure appeared next to him. It was a bound and gagged pony morph.    "Good point," Finbar dryly commented.    "We want safe passage out of here, and back to our home," the green skinned sub chief said.    "What do we get in reply?" Finbar asked.    "We give you our hostages."    "How many do you have?" the Knight asked.    "Many," the lutin replied.    The knight opened his mouth to say something else, but Misha stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Don't bother, Lutins can't count."    "We get to Giants dike safe, we free them all then," the lutin demanded.    "NO!" Misha countered strongly. "You release them all now and we'll let you go free."    The lutin laughed. "We know you fox. We give you people, you kill us all anyway."    Finbar laughed. "He has a point."    "I'll be your safe hostage," the knight announced suddenly.    "Roark," Misha said to the knight. "Do you realize how dangerous that is?"    "I do," he answered simply. "But it's worth the risk if it will save lives."    Misha stared at the man. The face that stared back at him was calm and dead serious. "You'd do that for a Keeper?"    "You're all humans, no matter what people may say," was the knights response.    Misha turned to the lutin. "I promise you safe passage in exchange for the people you are holding captive. This I swear by Whisper."    "You promise but not live up to promise," was the Lutins answer.    "I'll give you Whisper as a safeguard," the fox answered.    A look of shock crossed the Lutins face. "You really mean it," he said surprised. "Why?"    "A thousand Keepers are dead, and many times that number of Lutins. There's been too many deaths already," Misha said in a weary voice.    The sub chief nodded in agreement. "Fershak stupid to believe Nasoj's lies about gold and plunder."    Misha laughed. "Chief Fershak is dead. You want to see his head?"    "You keep head," the lutin said grinning. "I keep tribe." ********************************    Twenty keepers watched as a ragged group of forty Lutins came out of the doorway and filed past them. All were battered, worn and frightened, hardly the bold group that had entered the keep a mere handful of days ago. Last came the lutin chief. Misha handed the lutin a large white cloth on a pole. "Carry that at the front of your group and it will guarantee your safety as far as the Dike," the fox explained. " Then he reached for the axe that was strapped to his back.    The lutin waved his hands. "You keep axe. I trust you. If you not kill us yet, you will live up to promise."    The fox laughed. "Brains and humor, a rare gift in a lutin. What will you do with your tribe?"    "I take the Hammers home," the lutin answered. "And never come back to Keep."    "I'll hold you to that promise," Misha said.    The lutin left the Keeper and ran to the head of his people, the white banner held aloft. In a moment the group was out of sight.    "I believe he'll live up to that promise," the knight commented.    "So do I," Misha added.    Finbar came running out of the doorway. "Misha, you'd better see this."    The ferret dragged Misha through the doorway and into the rooms beyond. He was drawn passed a stinking pile of rags and furs that marked a Lutins bed and through a side door. The fox found himself in a small room that had been a storeroom at one time. Scattered around the room were at least a dozen keepers. Some were sitting against a wall, others were lying down and still others were tending to the wounded. Finbar brought him to a keeper who lay in a back corner near the rooms sole window. He recognized the figure instantly.    "ANDRE!" he shouted and dropped to his knees to hug his old friend.    Weakly the wolverine returned the hug. "Hi Misha," he said in a whisper.    "It's good to see you alive," the fox said crying.    "Jenn is safe?" Andre asked.    "Yes, she's doing fine."    "The Keep?"    Misha hesitated before answering. "The Keep is fine."    "No it isn't," the wolverine countered. "I can tell by your voice."    It was a long time before Misha spoke. "A lot of Keepers are dead or wounded and most of the lower ward is in ruins, but we've broken the attack," the fox explained. "The only Lutins in the pass are dead or fleeing for their lives." He looked his friend over and noticed something that horrified him. Andre's left leg was gone below the knee. All he had there was a stump covered with a dirty and bloody bandage. "What did the Lutins do to you?"    "The green skins didn't do this," Andre said waving a paw at what remained of his left leg.  "The humans who took the gate did it. The Lutins saved my life. The chief kept us alive as a safeguard. If the attack failed he was going to use us to gain his freedom."    "It worked," Finbar said.    "It worked for everybody," Misha added. *** End part 80</HTML>