Regan was grateful for the peaceful silence of their travels. Strangely, in their relative quiet she’d come to rather enjoy Nolan’s company, for the simple reason that he didn’t demand anything over. There was no small talk about her family or childhood—topics that would be embarrassing, to say the least.

When they arrived in Airedale, that peace was broken. It would seem Nolan’s soldiers had already begun searching door-to-door for Fischer (Regan had opinions on that matter, but decidedly kept them to herself). If Fischer hadn’t been tipped off that they were on the hunt for him, then he likely was now. Regardless, they had a job to do, and the Green Chapel was their best lead.

“Well, let’s take a look then, shall we?” Regan said, looking over at Nolan with a sideways grin. Equipped with the same potions and sword she had been on her arrival, Regan would wait for Nolan’s consent before starting forward. She’d take a deep breath sniffing as her eyes flashed amber. When Cassian had taken her to the estate to search for the missing steward, the hellhound had taken a big ole whiff of Wyndham. If the man was inside, she’d smell a fresh scent. If he wasn’t, the stale smell would at least give a clue that he had in fact been there.

Regan’s eyes tracked across the villagers who were dropping away like birds fleeing a storm. Thankfully, soldiers moved in to take their place. If they didn’t surround the inn on their own, Regan would motion for them to do so. Fischer’s smell was fresh. They had him where they wanted him, and it was in both her and Nolan’s best interest that it stayed that way.

“He’s here,” Regan whispered, nodding, “I’ll keep watch while you deliver the summons—quickly and quietly. Wouldn’t want to unnecessarily spoil their good time.” Though Regan was under no false assumption the inn was full of friendly faces. Anyone who wasn’t a soldier of Nolan’s was suspicious. Perhaps even then…

Regan pushed the door open just enough for her and Nolan to slip in. The dance was in full swing, the room crowded with twirling skirts and raucous laughter. Regan went to the side, slipping around the outer wall, following her nose until she spied their target. Fischer was playing feverishly at the piano with a maniacal grin that made Regan’s stomach turn. Given the close quarters, her sword would do her no good.

She slowly pulled the dagger from her thigh, keeping it clutched surreptitiously at her side as her claws dug into her palm. She jerked her head at Nolan, indicating he should move in while she slipped around the wall—keeping anyone from coming up behind her while staying between Fischer and the exit.

NPC permission for Fischer and Nolan's soldiers given by M'Baku

The stilled crowd made Regan’s job much, much easier. She stayed against the wall so as not to draw attention to herself, but still stayed close enough she could intervene if need be. Her nose wrinkled at Fischer Wyndham’s voice. She had no problem believing he was as despicable as the blonde gifteds claimed him to be.

Regan let Nolan do his thing, but her hand remained tight around her dagger, her muscles tense, the hellhound close enough to scratch the surface.

This wasn’t right.

Regan had seen Shray before. She had been in the room when she first came to see Nolan and, though she didn’t know the woman to be his wife, she did know that she certainly worked with Nolan. Nolan’s face made clear this was an unexpected turn of events. That this was, more likey than not, a trap.

“Out,” Regan said quietly and calmly to the partygoers closest to her, “Get everyone out. Now.” She would start moving forward, slowly, eyes never leaving Fischer.

Reality hit Regan with a dreadful smack. It was Nolan’s soldiers outside—not there to keep Fischer in, but her. She was the gift that was being offered. If looks could kill, Regan’s glare at Nolan would. But as it was, the witch had far more frightening tricks up her sleeve.

The tavern-goers would likely have had the good sense to get out of the way, so they were not between the witch and the advancing foe. It was a lucky thing for them, too. An incantation flew from Regan’s tongue. An energy blast would rip through the tavern, directed toward Nolan, Fischer, and Shray.

“Everyone out. Now.”

Though it surely didn’t need saying. The partygoers should know to flee, lest they be caught in the crossfire. Immediately, Regan started murmuring, the words flowing as she marched toward the three crumpled traitors. She made straight for Shray, still murmuring, stomping a boot to her chest—enough to break a collarbone, perhaps more—before letting her dagger fly across the woman’s face.

It was not a precise slice. Maybe the woman would lose her nose, an eye, but either way she was sure to be deformed. Regan’s voice would rise in volume as she pressed her hand against Shray’s mangled visage, blood squelching through her fingers before she backed away, looking for incoming foes.

Witches were creatures of chaos—not honor, restraint, or mercy. It was rage that colored Regan’s features as Shray’s blood coated her hands to call the summoning forward.