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[Kaylor]

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The full moon hung low in the skies over Stonegate Valley, the clouds waltzing tumultuously above. Kaylor took leave of the Mead Hall, the door slamming heavily behind him in the wake of his hasty departure. His stride never breaking, his boots well contested the ice hidden beneath new fallen snow as he summoned his steed, ready to set spurs for home.

"D'anam don diabhal!" The Gaelic curse sliced the night's silence as he scowled at the blood marring the perfection of the intricately carved blade of the dagger still clutched in his hand. She'd followed him, watched from stealth's secret shroud, an indelicate witness to the macabre exhibition of his dance with death. 'Twas not a sight intended for audience although he had allowed his queen's accompaniment, albeit once. He'd owed her that truth, however none other.

Harlequin's breach upon his variance was a masque that would meet with great cost!
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*Even if you be otherwise perfect, you fail without humility. ~ The Talmud*

[Harlequin]

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Quinn tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. An expression of delight was faintly visible beneath her painted pout. “Hello again, Handsome.”

The shadows bent low, crouching over him as his dark, icy stare pierced her, straight through. Rabble and merriment passed by in the cold and dying light of Luna twilight. She had paused, knowing what he wanted, and unwilling to put it off a moment longer.

Kaylor didn’t flinch. His midnight glare permeated her with a chill colder than that of the winter evening. “I would speak with you in private, woman.”

Harlequin smiled mischievously and bit her lip. “Whatever you desire, Kaylor.” Her voice was laden with double entendre.

For once, his gaze didn’t leave her face to wander over her scant armour and painted flesh. “Meet me at the Mead Hall.” He reigned his steed toward the open land outside of Luna.

Quinn smiled playfully as she watched him go. And so the dance begins.
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Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

[Harlequin]

---

“Bailey. Scotch. A double.” Quinn took the glass from the barkeep and turned to lean back against the bar and watch the goings-on at the tables in the center of the room.

A dark figure burst through the front doors. Before she even recognized his hulking stature, the Black Knight grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her toward the parlor door. He tore the door open and slammed it behind them, releasing her with a rough shove toward the couch.

Quinn grinned mischievously as he raked a hand through his hair and paced the room once, then turned. She sat down on the couch, propping her feet up on the low table, crossed at the ankles. He was clearly flustered, and she was settling in for the show.

“What did you see? What pleasure take you in bearing witness to death’s dance?” Kaylor demanded, his tone both angry and threatening.

“A hunter, not unlike myself.” Harlequin smirked, watching his every move. “Tell me, are they random prey, or is there some rhyme or reason to your method?”

Kaylor placed a hand on the back of the couch behind her and leaned forward over her, his voice soft and menacing. “I am no hunter. And I am certainly not a part of your little game. Don’t even insinuate—“

“Not even when you wear the mask?” Quinn interrupted, leaning forward into his ominous stance. Her eyes danced merrily as she saw fury cloud his own dark eyes.

In an instant, faster than she could even register, his dagger’s point bit into the flesh of her chest. Harlequin felt a wave of vertigo as the dance took a dizzyingly dangerous turn.

“You will keep your silence, Harlequin. I hope we understand one another.”

Quinn narrowed her eyes. Nobody called her that. No one got to her this way. Pushing buttons was her trick.

She opened her mouth to speak as he lowered the dagger. Instead, her lips turned up in a malicious grin. Kaylor’s rage flared at her response, and he ripped the dagger across her right arm, turning on his heel and stalking out of the room without another word.

As the door slammed in his wake, blood began to pour down over her hand and puddle on the floor at her feet. Outside the door, the clock chimed ten. Rythane would arrive within the hour. The scene, as she surveyed it, was damning, to say the least. Hastily, she pulled a handful of bandages from her pack. Using her teeth to hold one end and tying with her left hand, she bound the wound as best she could. Blood soaked the cloth nearly as quickly as she could bandage it. For now, it would have to do.

She wondered as she bound the wound – what would she tell Rythane? He’d certainly ask. A sardonic smile spread across her painted face. The truth, of course. Indeed it is not a game, Black Knight. It is a most dangerous and deadly dance. And I’m afraid you’ve chosen a most infuriating partner.
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar