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Two virgins in a hammock, two lovers in the evening.
As she knelt on the white gravel, her robes parted to reveal a hint of her smooth thighs beneath, and more of that expansive cleavage. "My poor, poor boy."
Her actions lead Alan to wonder about the two. Marcy wasn't unattractive, far from it, but she wasn't beautiful either. Her features were lined with worry, her own dark hair was beginning to shoot through with gray, but she had a kind face, and a figure that could merit a second or even third look when she presented it. And the way the big man looked up to her in his hour of need, the boy had done well.
"Drink up," Alan offered, and uncorked that potion's vial. The mystic contents glimmered in the moonlight, and he tilted it slowly, watching as Marcy carefully held Henri's head up. It wouldn't work miracles, but it did stop the worst of the bleeding. Those wounds seemed to pucker in upon themselves before their very eyes. Sword wounds. Alan knew what that looked like.
"It tastes bad," Henri complained. His complaints were drowned out by a soft, nervous laugh from Marcy, before she dotted his face with kisses.
"If you've got enough strength to complain about the taste, you've got enough to live through this," despite Marcy's bravado, tears still streamed down her face.
It took almost five minutes to get Henri inside with Marcy's help, and then send for a healer. By all rights, Alan should have stayed by him, but Marcy would do just as fine a job at keeping the fellow calm. Something dark was stirring in Alan's soul. Something he hadn't felt since meeting Elizabeth. He would find who had done this, he would get his wife back, and he would torture the ones who took her from him until they couldn't remember their own name. When he was with the guild, he'd dealt with foes aplenty, but few had been so brazen as to attack him on his own ground. This couldn't have been a random attack, out here on his own estate. Someone had to have targeted his wife specifically.
Alan was no sorcerer, no wizard, but in times like this magic was often the best solution. He needed to find Elizabeth, and quickly, and aside from spells, only a trained tracker could uncover what had happened. He wasn't a tracker either, and the only one in his old merry band who could do so was a full day's travel away. It would take a day to alert her, then a day for her to arrive, time Alan simply did not have. What he did have, though, was goods and trinkets gleaned from over three and a half decades of thievery. His private stash, collected from all the corners of the known world. The master thief unlocked the vault deep beneath his manor house, and began searching through things. He knew exactly what he needed, and in short order he had them out.
The reflection in the silver mirror almost shocked Alan. It shouldn't have. There was something murderous in his steely gaze, something he hadn't seen on his own features in a long time. Even the usurper's crisis hadn't made him feel the anger swelling within him that this action had. But he had to calm himself. One dextrous hand slipped forth to grip the side of the mirror, and the gray haired rogue took a few deep breaths. His broad chest heaved as he tried to calm his nerves, and once he was cold as ice again, he proceeded.
The scroll in hand wasn't particularly ancient.