It has been seventeen years since the death of Monarchs Oliver of Achtyn and his wife, Marian. Their country, Sahale, splintered off into different factions after the collapse of the monarchy, and was swallowed up by a neighboring country, Farkas, ruled by Queen Dionne. After this victory, Queen Dionne went on to conquer half of the western country, Ceola, and continues to fight in order to conquer the other half, but the Ceoli are well entrenched beyond their rivers. Yulen to the east, fearing conquest by the emerging Farkan Empire, quickly agreed to an alliance, bending over backward at Farkas' merest whim. During this time of "peace", unrest has stirred in the depths, and quietly a force that calls themselves the Renegades seeks to overthrow Queen Dionne and restore Sahale to its proper glory. In the recent months, they have been gathering information in order to launch their final attack, but just when things get crucial, the Queen's Brigade, Queen Dionne's personal order of knights, begins to cut the Renegades' knees out from under them! Has the Queen managed to infiltrate the rebellion, or has one of the Poachers made a deal with the Wolves of Farkas?

"Brigham Clancy!"

The slender form of a female flinched at the shout, cringing as a swell of hopeless despair threatened to capsize what little composure she had – despite this, her hazel-hued eyes never looked away from the raised stage, nor from the man who knelt upon it draped in chains.

"You have been accused of plotting and committing high treason against Her Majesty, the Queen of Farkas, Ruler and Overseer of all the Northern Lands! Of this charge, you have been found guilty, and sentenced to death by beheading!"

Ripples of approval swept through the crowd that had gathered – common folk, businessmen, even nobles. And why would the high and mighty aristocracy come to see such a display? Well, other than a bright way to start their morning, it was one of their own on that podium, even bruised and dirtied as he was. Count Brigham Clancy… It was only she who stood still and sober.

"Any final words before you are put to death, traitor?" The words were said with a sneer, as though the man knew any words now would be to no avail. There would be nothing, and no one, to help him now. Or…would there? Brigham did not answer straight away, bent forward beneath the heavy weight of his chains so that he knelt hunched over…but his grey eyes were bright, undiminished by cruelty or torture; indeed, they seemed to flare because of it. Still, those eyes cast about, looking for…what? Kindness? Compassion? A chance? But no, there would be no chance, no chance, and her steady gaze wavered for a single moment. How she ached to give him that chance. Suddenly, grey stone met hazel earth, and she gasped sharply in sudden revelation. He knew. The thought, as soon as she thought it, became belief within her heart. Brigham knew with supreme certainty that the Renegades would try no rescue attempts (as they had in the past), he knew they had sent no one but her, he knew she was there…as a witness, and nothing more. His eyes moved away, roaming over the crowd, accepting the hatred from those he'd once upon a time called equals. He smiled.

"I have served faithfully with everything that I am. I have no regrets." He spoke to the crowd, but the words lodged themselves in her heart, and settled there in belonging. These words had been made for her, and she took them without a second thought. The man cloaked in black made as if to roll his eyes, but stopped mid-gesture and gave another: the go-ahead the executioner had been waiting for.

Two of the Queen's Brigade moved forward and pushed and kicked Brigham to the block, forcing his neck into the smoothened slot. It was hard to tell who was more disturbed at his whimsical smile: the crowd or the knights. The time had come, the end was near. A burly man with a black mask stepped forward and raised his axe to the sky, the sunlight shunning the dull metal of the blade…and he swung.

The woman was glad she was not the only one who left quickly, tinged green with illness, when the dull blade sounded again and again as it hacked away at the neck of Count Brigham Clancy, and away she fled, losing herself in the city streets.

The city of Tremane was a sprawling metropolis full of theatres and restaurants, shops and stores that catered to the Highborn that inhabited most of the northwest part of the city, their lofty homes and mansions standing tall against the morning sky. However, the Outer Rim, as it was casually called among the more common citizens, was far more practical for here were the bakeries and butcher shops, the craftsmen and merchants. Metal smiths, particularly, inhabited one section of the Outer Rim, named the Aculei Avenue for its thorn-shaped form. Their forges churned out some of the finest weaponry in the lands stretching from the Bienne Sea to Yulen in the east and beyond. Here, too, were the houses of the middle folk and the common folk, townhouses and well-kept apartments. Life in the Outer Rim might not have been as fancy, with operas and dinner parties, but considering the country of Farkas, life was pleasant, and just as often sweet. Here were simpler pleasures, markets and sideshows, coffee shops and taverns where the pleasant became merry and drank the night away. Drink, however much of an inhibition to clever thinking, was particularly on her mind at the moment.

Her skin was a warm color of tawny brown and clammy with sweat; the cool breeze running through the streets only served to draw goosebumps up and down her arms. A bright gleam in her hazel eyes that bordered on fear threatened to spill over into her actions, for she was already twitching, shaking; still, her (somewhat) shaky control over herself allowed her at least that much, enough sanity to not break into pieces, abandon all, and hole up in her hideaway that very instant. The woman – by looks, a woman well into her twenties, though she had the wisdom of thirty-one years – was not beautiful, having an oval face with a sharp nose that split it in two, but her prominent widow's peak heightened the attention on her chalk lined eyebrows, her almond shaped eyes that seemed to miss little. Hair of a blackened sorrel color framed her oval face neatly, the slight curl in her locks hinting at mixed blood.

Still, she was not dressed like peasantry, and rather looked attired as one of the middle class, a crimson bodice laced over a cream-colored, long-sleeved shirt of good material, finishing off with a long skirt of a lighter tone of scarlet over good, leather boots. Perhaps a merchant's wife or something of the like? It would explain her good eye (and big purse) for clothing made of Dehmarcian cloth; light yet warm at the same moment, perfect for such mornings.

No such chance for a merchant woman, however, for she was Ophelia Dunixi, wife to Tratner Dunixi who owned and ran Dunixi's Tavern – lovingly referred to by her husband and favored patrons as Phea. They did well together, her and Tratner, and with their combined efforts, their small bar had evolved to a well-known and beloved tavern with the second floor acting as their house and home…it was also a meeting place and halfway house for any Poacher seeking refuge from the bloodthirsty Wolves. Phea sighed with unabashed relief when saw the tavern and she hurried forward, her tense shoulders melting as soon as she pushed open the sturdy, oaken doors and passed underneath the archway, feeling she was at home. There were little to no customers so early in the morning, and Phea was glad for it gave her some time to compose herself before she would have to face anyone – Renegade or otherwise. But no, not yet, she couldn't break down on the tavern floor, not yet. Taking a deep breath, Phea recovered her steady gait and nodded politely to a couple of men having breakfast who returned the gesture in their own fashion, neither showing outward notice nor concern of the instability of their fellow Renegade. The knowledge that she could neither break down in the kitchen was all that carried Phea past the prying gaze of Eli the cook, up the stairs, and a few stumbling leaps brought her to her front door. It was several moments before, however, when Phea could still her shaking hands enough as to open the door, and she shut it behind her with an inconsiderate slam, though considering her emotional turmoil, she had every right to be so.

Sinking down against the wooden door, Phea gently curled up on the floor and strained to breath normally as thick tears trickled down her face and dotted the oaken floor. How had they found out about Count Clancy? How could they have possibly gathered enough suspicion on the gentle count that they had executed him? Phea knew – had known – the man, known him to be meticulous and methodical – wasn't that why they had chosen him? Wasn't that why she had relied on him? – he would never have slipped up! Hadn't it even begun to be aggravating, his paranoid manner and firm insistence on double, sometimes triple checks? And he had been nobility, one of their own, a son of one of the blue-blooded families! A heavy thought weighed on her mind, draining the warmth from her blood: 'If the Queen could find and murder a Count…what hope is there for the rest of us?'

Yes, they were mighty, yes, they were powerful…but they were hardly immortal. 'As the Queen seems more and more to be.' Phea thought bitterly. Had they underestimated her? Or merely overestimated themselves? As well as a call for caution, this execution was a signal for increasing danger. More and more lately, their people had been found, caught, and murdered by the Queen's Brigade. Reports flooded in for Tratner, and in turn, to Phea… The Renegades were slowly and methodically being stripped away of all their support, being cut off right at the knees. How was she finding them?! How did she slip past all their webs of lies, shadows of doubts, and reach into their chests to grasp their beating hearts? Thoughts churned through Phea's head, even as her stomach did the same…

…the slow and steady sound of dull metal hacking away at flesh fresh and vivid in her mind.