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Alysa is so drunk off both her own pleasure and the effects of Mira's blood that she almost forgets an important detail, Mira removed her necklace. The bandit can hear a nagging whisper in the back of her mind coaxing her to find the keys. She wants to resist it, to stay here with Mira forever, to accept her gift, to become immortal and take her away from here.

She feels around in the dark, her fingers scrabbling along the sheets to find the necklace, not daring to move more than her uninjured arm lest she awaken Mira and incur her wrath, or worse another dose of her intoxicating blood.

Alysa cannot see in the dark, though she wishes she could, especially in this place. But if she can only find Mira's necklace, then perhaps she might have a chance to make her escape. But the thought of staying is so tempting, to trade it all for another night of such passion, it seems only reasonable, only right. She's promised herself to Mira, is she not a woman of her word? Could she even survive without Mira's affection and would she even want to? Even as her fingers search, her mind attempts to lull her back into submission.

After only three days of Mira's affections, Alysa hovers on the verge of death, even though she cannot know this for certain. Her vitality and her willpower have been stripped away with every encounter so that it seems as though she was doomed from the moment she attempted to rob that carriage and become entranced with the woman.

Not only did she fail to grab the necklace but she must have passed out entirely in the midst of their lovemaking and now she feels utterly and literally drained. Even the thought of trying to move is tiring. That is why when she hears what are almost certainly distant gunshots, all she can do is listen and, when the door of the bedchambers fly open, she can barely turn her head to see the man standing there.

He is tall, not especially stocky, wearing a collared white shirt and a studded leather vest. In one hand, he carries a lantern while, in the other, he wields a pistol which he has pointed directly at Alysa. Still fairly young, despite a few lines under his eyes, above which he wears a set of goggles not unlike those that Alysa once wore in what seems to be a lifetime ago, he has a black goatee and spiky hair that must jut out in every direction.

'Where is Mira Marlowe?' the man asks coldly, cocking the hammer of his wheellock pistol.

Alysa looks over at the man, wide eyed and wondering if this is another trick of her poisoned mind. "M-mira?" she whispers weakly, "she was here earlier but i...i don't know. I need help, she's...not...." Alysa cannot find the words nor the strength to finish her statement and slumps back. She is fighting to stay conscious, knowing in some part of her mind that this man may be her only hope. Her blue eyes flutter and she can already see the darkness closing in at the edges of her vision.

"Poison" is all she can whisper, hoping that the man can understand what she's saying and unsure whether he is even there at all or if she is imagining the whole thing. She knows she cannot even gather the strength to move and is truly at the mercy of this stranger, more than she had ever been with Mira. "Help"

However, Alysa's words only emerge as a drooling, bubbling babble that sounds alien even to herself. She can see the light of the lantern as it fills the room and blinds her until she is surrounded by a dazzling illumination. Surely there can be only one explanation; she has passed beyond.

'She should live,' says a weathered, aged voice. She can try to open her eyes but the radiance of wherever she lies is simply too bright and her lids shall snap shut of their own accord. Gradually, Alysa is aware that she is lying on a comfortable bed, though not as soft or yielding as the one upon which she and Mira had made love. She has a kind of unexplained realization that she is far from the woman and part of her yearns for Mira, calling silently to her.

'She was almost gone, though. If you hadn't arrived when you did, she would have died, just like all the others.'

'Scarcely a victory,' says a calm, authoritative voice that has a distinct accent that marks him as being from the southern regions of Angalon. 'She is alive but how many others were down in their larder or whose remains were in that kitchen? One life with so much death around it hardly matters.'

'You're so very wrong, Sinclare,' counters a sly, feminine voice that also speaks with a southern dialect. 'One life is all that matters if that life is your own. Or, in this case, her own.' There is the acrid odor of pipeweed smoke. 'I should think she'll wish to thank you, Robert.'

'I don't know,' retorts a bemused, deep, rich barotone. 'I almost shot her. I thought she was one of them until I saw the wretched condition she was in.'

'They got away,' a fourth voice interjects. This man sounds somewhat pompous but young. 'Or rather we got away and left them behind.'

'The old lawgiver in that town is entirely under her control,' says the first voice, the one that the woman identified as Sinclare. 'Luckily the same precautions that were intended to keep us out stopped the gendarmes from interfering.'

'While we ran like rabbits,' says the third voice, the man named Robur.

'If nothing else,' the pompous voice suggests, 'we can notify the Oathkeepers in Esclabor. I'm sure they'll be very interested in what's going on in Gornmont.'

'By the time they get there,' Sinclare replies, 'they shall either have fled or they'll have managed to ensure that nobody talks. They're very good at hiding in plain sight.'

'Not from you, Lios,' the coy voice of the woman demurs. 'You're their perfect enemy.'

'Not me,' Sinclare responds. 'I'm no Celestine.'

'None of us are,' Robur mentions jovially, 'but at least we're on their side more often than not.' The stench of pipeweed grows stronger. 'And we did kill their troll.'

'And half their staff,' amends the pompous voice. 'Not that they shall have trouble replacing them. Do you truly think they shall stay there, Master Sinclare, now that they have been exposed?'

'As far as the Oathkeepers and the Lawgivers will know,' Sinclare answers warily, 'they were beset by bandits, which is precisely the reasons that Armonde had given for all the additional security there. Besides, that's only one hive. We know there are many more. She has had nearly two hundred years to spread her curse and there shall be more nests.'

'You make it all sound so gloomy,' Robur says and Alysa can hear the smile in his words. Somehow she can tell he is the man she saw in Mira's bedroom just before she fell unconscious.

'And you never take things as seriously as you should, Robur,' the pompous voice retorts.

'Never as seriously as you do, Renard,' Robur concurs. 'I try to find ways to enjoy life.'

'Masters and mistress,' interjects the older man who had originally spoken. 'She shall need rest. Perhaps it shall be best if you left her to me.'

'Thank you, Moldon,' Sinclare says. 'For all your help.'

There follows the sound of a door opening and Alysa manages to force her eyes barely open just long enough to catch sight of an old man garbed in the white robes, a black belt wrapped around his waist from which hangs the steel hammer of a lawgiver. The spiky haired man with the goggles on his forehead and a smoking pipe dangling from his lips trails after a tall figure in a cowled hood and flowing cloak leaving behind a rather sassy looking older woman in a sleek, form fitting red robe over which she wears what looks to be black webbing that forms a lattice around her curvaceous body. She has a pair of knives tucked into her own belt, along with a pistol and she stops to smile at the old man.

'You're one of the classy ones, Moldon,' she says flirtatiously. 'If you were only a few years younger...'

The old man, whose has a fringe of white beard along his jawline and chin, nods coolly. 'I would still throw you in the cells for propositioning a Lawgiver,' he replies.

She pats his face. 'Don't ever change, Master Moldon,' she says.

'I shall pray that you shall, Madame Arseni,' Moldon answers.

Throughout this exchange, Alysa shall find her tongue is still numb and her mouth dry, unable to form even the most basic of words and any sound she attempts to make dies in her throat.

Finally, Moldon closes the door behind the departing woman. Alysa is in a small, clean room with white stone walls and sunlight streaming in through window slits above her. It does not appear to be a cell yet it is too impersonal to be a bedroom.

The old man moves forward, taking his hammer in his hand while touching Alysa's forehead. At once, a warmth shall fill her and momentarily banish all thoughts about Mira from her mind.

Alysa's eyes slowly flutter open, bracing herself for whatever horrors await her. Her body feels strange, but that may just be the realization that she is alive and free from the woman's clutches. She realizes what they were talking about and what she has really been eating and she has to fight the urge to vomit as panic rises in her throat, she wants to scream at the realization, sheer horror must be written all over her face. Any part of her that might miss Mira is silenced with the horrific revelation that the woman had been feeding Alysa the remains of her other victims.

She can't imagine what she looked like when they found her but she knew it wouldn't have been a pretty sight. She tries to speak, trying to force her lips to form words. "W-where am I?" is what she hopes to say, silently praying that she hasn't fallen into the clutches of something far more sinister than the monsters of Redclyffe. She doesn't even know how she got here or how long she was unconscious, if that's truly what she was and not dead. Her mind races, what if this is all an illusion, an elaborate ruse crafted by Mira to test her loyalty? What if she will never be truly free of her?

'You're in the House of the Law in Ganelon,' the Lawgiver replies, a kindly smile on his face. 'I am Justice Moldon, servant of the Law. You are safe here, my child.'

Like most Lawgivers, Moldon is dressed in the loose fitting white robes with the black collar and fringe with which she is very familiar. Underneath it, he likely wears some kind of armor, even if he is otherwise secure within the shrine. Lawgivers must always be prepared, a harsh lesson taught to the people of Angalon by the Horogoth.

'You have suffered greatly at the hands of unfathomable evil,' Moldon intones darkly. 'Children of chaos that infected you with their wickedness but, with time and rest, you shall recover if your body, and your faith, is strong enough.' If this man is attempting to trick Alysa, he is doing a fine job of carrying on in the severe and humorless manner of a Lawgiver.

'Do not attempt to move. Your body is still recovering.' He gestures to the small table next to the cot where Alysa lies. A clay pitcher and leather tankard rest there but, knowing the Lawgivers, it shall likely only be water. Next to this is a small loaf of fluffy white bread and a wax covered wheel of cheese.

'Eat when you are hungry and I shall ensure that you are given dinner tonight. After two days of rest, I imagine you are very hungry.'

Two days! Small wonder then that Alysa feels so stiff and aching through her body, as if her bones were made of lead. She has been cleansed, her hair washed and she wears a tight white smock over which is a more loose fitting flowing white robe. Moreover, the mere mention of food, despite her brief attack of disgust, causes her stomach to come roaring to life.

Alysa almost screams again as she realizes where she is. This cannot end well, she won't be able to hide her identity for long, the fact she's managed for two days is a miracle in itself, once they find out who and what she is they will surely cease their kindness unless... A plan begins to form in the back of her mind there may yet be a way to save herself once again.

"T-they killed him didn't they?" she whispers pitifully, hoping to convince the man that Jothan's death is somehow related to her condition and not something more sinister like murder. "My partner, he's dead isn't he?" Her body is still weak and she couldn't move if she tried to, but she doesn't need to move to play this most important part in her little play.

"H-he tried to save me, to fight them, but the woman, she wanted me for her own, the last I remember he was...." she trails off into sobs, hiding her face from him as though the horrific realization is too much for her. "the inn, they came and we couldn't hold them back, there were only two of us against them and that thing, what will I ever do?"

She looks up with wide and watering eyes to the man at her bedside "it's my fault, I'm the one who said we should stay there, we should have ridden on, he was right and now he's dead", she reaches with a shaking hand for the pitcher and pours herself some water, lifting it to trembling lips as she sniffs it for poison.

'There, there, my dear,' Moldon says, patting Alysa on the shoulder with his thick fingers that peek out from under his steel vambraces. 'You need not worry about any of that now. You are safe. I know not of whom you speak but those responsible for the deaths in Gornmont shall be severely punished.'

His bushy white brows knit together as he scowls. 'That I can promise you. Now then, you rest and eat and regain your strength. It wouldn't be proper to ask you any further inquiries in this condition.'

Most poisons of which Alysa is aware are often odorless, if not also tasteless. However, the water at least looks clear and pure. Not only that but the sunlight that cascade down onto her warms her skin.

In her experience, most Lawgivers are not cruel or needlessly harsh. They are stern but usually fair minded. Even so, Alysa cannot be certain that Moldon shall be so kindly disposed towards her once he finds out she is wanted for murder.

Alysa takes a deep breath, perhaps it is time to swallow her pride, perhaps under the circumstances they will be merciful. After all she was almost dead, nothing they can do to her will be worse than that.

"I-I must speak to you, it is better you hear the truth from me before you find out who I am and judge me harshly for it" her voice is weak, both from her experiences and the feeling of defeat that has settled over her. "My name is Alysa, Alysa Damora, I am...was... a stalker. My partner Jothan is dead, I know, I'm the one who killed him. Before you judge me, I ask only that you listen, perhaps once you know what I know you will understand why I had to".

She hangs her head, for the first time feeling remorseful for what she'd done, "Jothan attacked a woman in the local brothel, when he returned to me at the inn the locals were on to him, a huge crowd gathered outside and they were screaming for his arrest, he confessed to me that if I tried to turn him in he would make sure I died for his crime, he also made it clear that he was willing to kill innocent people to make his escape, I could not allow that. I shot Jothan and then I ran. I am a wanted woman, I know that I will have to pay for my crime but I also know that the lawgivers are merciful and fair and I throw myself at your mercy simply because I have been so close to death, I cannot die with this weighing on me".

As she finishes her tale she takes a sip of the cool, fresh water, the first she has had since the monster entranced her so many days ago. She knows how much trouble she is in and yet somehow she feels better for it, perhaps she is less like Mira than the vampir thought, for the first time since it happened Alysa feels truly free, no matter what they may do to her, she is at least free from her past.

Moldon listens intently and then nods gravely. 'These are serious matters, Mistress Damora,' he says solemnly. 'If these allegations are true, then they must be investigated. I shall send word to the Oathkeepers as well as the Stalkers in Esclabor. They shall verify if what you claim is true.'

He sighs. 'Nevertheless, until your guilt is proven, I shall keep your confession between the two of us for now. I shall ask that you remain within the walls of this shrine until such time as your innocence or guilt is known. You shall need some time to recover in either case. Do not presume, however, that your crime, if it be true, warrants a death sentence. Until all the facts are known, you shall simply remain in the custody of this hall.

He smiles faintly, his wrinkled features creasing further. 'Now, take care not to fill yourself with bread and cheese. I have it on good authority that the Matron is preparing a delicious stew for supper and it would be a transgression if you did not manage to partake.'

Sliding his hammer back on its hanger upon his hip, Moldon gazes at Alysa thoughtfully. 'You are aware that there is order in the universe. Perhaps your suffering was punishment for your transgressions. It is not yet my position to judge you, Mistress Damora, but I shall say this; you are fortunate to yet have your life either way.'

He blinks as something occurs to him. 'Damora? Are you from the township of Damora? Why then, you are practically home, you know. Damora is but a day away. It seems you are practically back where you started.' Moldon nods. 'Perhaps an opportunity to make a fresh start of things.'