Rescue Lyra from the Rinvari.

Lyra’s cool gaze slips toward you as you approach, her painted lips curving into a wicked grin around her glass as she sips. “So very interesting,” she says derisively to the Rinvari, lowering her wine. “Have you met our gracious host, Lord Dragoon?”

The Rinvari’s smile turns grim as he sees you, like a thief getting caught in the act of stealing. You stop beside them, a little closer to Lyra, and without missing a beat she sidles toward you and weaves her arm through yours. She carries with her a whiff of something floral and sweet.

{if mage = true}She looks at you. “This man was just regaling me with tales of his magical exploits.” She looks back to him. “Tell the good Lord, boy.”

The man, slighted it seems by the infantalizing term, straightens, puffs his chest. “Very well, your ladyship. I cracked a whip of lightning at a young stag in your wood, Lord.” He sneers at you. “Died flat, ugly stupid thing, and badly startled your castle’s hunters. They said the meat would be ruined, but I didn’t do it for the meat.” He shrugs off your look of disgust. “I’ve got a natural talent for magic.” He winks at Lyra. “And other things, too.”

Unaffected by his leering, she looks at you again. “He has a natural talent for magic,” she says, deadpan.

You swallow your anger over the stag. “As one of the most decorated mages from Sapphire Coast, you should surely fear him,” you say.

“Perhaps I should.”

“Or you could show him what real magic is, my Lady.”

The Rinvari man looks between you two, becoming more and more confused.

Lyra smiles. “I’m more interested in you demonstrating, Lord Dragoon. Unless that little parlor trick in the library is the extent of your abilities?” She bats her eyes sweetly, and you smirk, gathering the magic of the world to your fingertips.

The air buzzes with it, pulses with it. The hair on your arms and neck stands on end. Everyone in the courtyard flinches, looks around -- they feel it, too. You ignite the magic with a spark -- a reflex, a feeling -- and what buzzed now crackles. The air in the entire courtyard snaps with electricity. Small arcs of lightning curl along the breeze like neon blue snakes. Your guests balk at the display. Lyra grins all around her, eyes wide, awe-stricken.

“Do you want to see a real lightning bolt?” you say to the Rinvari, keeping your voice even despite the exertion such a spell requires.

He’s paled, the Rinvari. He shakes his head quickly. Desperately.

You let lightning fly anyway. All the **** of all the static you’ve gathered, thrown to one point: the center statue in the courtyard, a great, proud stag that has stood as your family’s sigil for centuries.

The lightning booms with a thunderclap as it makes impact. It ripples out, extinguishing the lights and lanterns in the courtyard. But the light has not dimmed. If anything, it is brighter now, for the statue has harnessed what you’ve given it, crackling with static, glowing the triumphant emerald of your family sigil, casting everything outside in a cool green glow.

The crowd balks, then applauds mightily, considering the whole thing a display of entertainment. Inside the ballroom, the band starts playing again after a momentary pause. The murmur of gossip and frivolity resumes.

“Disrespect another animal on my hunting grounds,” you say quietly, “and you’ll be lucky to ever see my dungeons.”

The shaking Rinvari nods, then bows, then bows deeper. He says nothing but scarpers off, looking over his shoulder the whole way into the ballroom as though you might change your mind and chase after him.

“Impressive,” Lyra says. She smiles at you coolly, but there’s a heat to her eyes now, something tender in the way she sucks her lips. “Highly impressive.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier to chase him off,” you say.

“I wouldn’t have complained, seeing more of you sooner.” She takes your arm again. “But let’s make up for it now, shall we? I want you all to myself for a little while.”

{elseif hunter = true}She looks at you. “This man was just regaling me with tales of his hunting exploits.” She looks back to him. “Tell the good Lord, boy.”

The man, slighted it seems by the infantalizing term, straightens, puffs his chest. “Very well, your ladyship. I trapped a young stag in your wood, Lord.” He sneers at you. “I got to watch the life leaving its eyes; carved it slow while it was hanging. Your castle’s hunters put an arrow in its eye while it was screaming. Stupid sods. Screaming’s the best part. If it weren’t for Queen Madeline’s command, I’d’ve skinned them, too. Folks from this far north are too proper to allow anyone a good time.” He winks at Lyra. “Probably in bed, even.”

Unaffected by his leering, she looks at you again. “He thinks himself a fine hunter,” she says, deadpan.

You swallow your anger over the stag. “A fine hunter is precise and centered, my Lady. A fine hunter shows respect for that which She hunts.”

“Show me,” she whispers, and you can see your own swallowed anger reflected back in her dark eyes.

You give her the slightest of nods before drawing a dagger off your belt. To his credit, the Rinvari is trained. He is fast. He sees the silver flash of steel and readies himself so that when you leap at him, he’s already moved aside. He’s swinging a haymaker toward your head, but you duck and thrust, your knifeblade finding purchase where you meant it: his belt. The thin Rinvari-weaved cloth snaps. The man leaps back, but his pants slide down and he trips over them, eyes huge with alarm as he falls ass-first onto the cobblestone with a painful thunk.

Your guests -- at first gasping and crying out at the melee -- now laugh hysterically. They clap and cheer and point derisively at your opponent.

“Stay down,” you say, but the man spits at your feet. He slips out of his pants and rolls backward into a bare-assed stand. He blushes fiercely, enraged-looking, as the crowd laughs harder.

He charges you, fists flying. You duck, bob, weave, and maneuver, guiding him toward a vine-covered wall opposite the ballroom. Those in the courtyard step aside of your path and crowd together to watch the skirmish.

You feel the tickle of an ivy leaf against your skin, the brush of vines against your reaching fingers. The Rinvari swings again -- another wild haymaker -- and you duck and leap to the side, roundhouse kicking him against the vines. He flattens against them, green leaves cushioning his impact, and before he can move you draw a second concealed weapon -- a small crossbow with surprising firepower.

Onlookers gasp. You fire, pinning one arm by the sleeve. You fire again, pinning his other arm. Then you keep firing, sinking bolts into every loose edge of clothing you can find until he’s shouting for mercy, pinned like a dead rat ready for autopsy.

“Please!” he shouts again. He can’t move a muscle despite the fact it looks like he’s dearly trying to.

The crowd applauds mightily, considering the whole thing a display of entertainment.

You approach him during the fervor. “Disrespect another animal on my hunting grounds,” you say quietly, “and you’ll be lucky to even see my dungeons.”

He nods as best he can, terrified, You pat him briskly on the shoulder, and turn to bow to your admiring onlookers. You’ve been in diplomacy for a long time. It’s better to pass things off as a game, when you can. Your guests cheer louder at your showmanship, and you find Lyra nearby at the fountain. No one moves to help unpin the stuck Rinvari man.

“Impressive,” Lyra says. She smiles at you coolly, but there’s a heat to her eyes now, something tender in the way she sucks her lips. “Highly impressive.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier to chase him off,” you say.

“I wouldn’t have complained, seeing more of you sooner.” She takes your arm again. “But let’s make up for it now, shall we? I want you all to myself for a little while.”{endif}