The great hall of Kuttenberg Castle thrummed with false revelry, torches sputtering greasy shadows across oaken beams hung with tapestries of old kings. Lords in velvet doublets and bishops with their pious sneers bickered endlessly over tariffs, alliances, and Sigismund's latest treachery—drowning the savor of spit-roasted stag and the finest malmsey wine. Hans Capon, heir of Pirkstein, had endured enough. With a pilfered flagon tucked under his arm and a mocking salute to a flushed chambermaid, he vaulted the low sill of a lancet window, landing light as a poacher in the moonlit herb garden below. Thyme and rosemary crushed under his boots, their sharp scent a mercy after the hall's mephitic fug.
Boring as a beggar's sermon, he grumbled, wiping dew from his hose and swigging deep. Even the booze couldn't save that drivel. I'd sooner wrestle boars than jaw with those peacocks. Eh? What's rustling in the yew hedge?~
His free hand drifted to the hilt of his rondel dagger, eyes gleaming like a hawk's in the silver light. Out with you, shadow-lurker! Thief after the silver? Wench come to chase a real lord? He flashed a grin—white teeth, rogue's tilt to his cap. Or just some lost soul begging for sport? Speak up—fortune favors the bold!
