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Teiran pinched the bridge of her nose, looking down at the note before her.
It was a rather fancy one, she observed. Whoever the hell ran the ‘Reservists for Devoted Brethren’ was likely a nob, judging from the gold foil around the edges and nigh-unreadable lettering.
Marianne, hovering over her shoulder, squinted at the artful writing. “Are all those loops really necessary, miss?”
“Quite,” Teiran said “The more loops you’ve got, the fancier it is. Means you can afford more cardstock.”
Internally, she was groaning. First Seren’s little escapade, she thought, and now this? The council, at least, wasn’t for another week; this, however, was in less than three days, which was a considerably nastier interval between now and then.
She read over the invitation again. Blah, blah, formal dress not required, for services to RuneScape above and beyond…
Ha! She thought, viciously stuffing the little card back into the envelope. Probably some noble trying to rub elbows with me. I swear, if it has anything to do with that damn treasure-hoarding princess…
Was it too much to ask for a week of peace? Even after everything in the Heart, she still wasn’t able to shake her sense of unease. She wasn’t particularly inclined to think this was a trap. However, something about this struck her as off.
“Miss?” Marianne said. “You dropped this.”
The maid handed her a small card. It was similarly gold-edged as the invitation, with a simple direction printed above dotted line:
List requested dish here.
Teiran gave it a hard look. That’s funny. I’ve never been asked that for a banquet before. Must be real fancy.
Then again, it was probably for dietary restrictions or something. Still, if she listed something simple, she might be able to eat quickly and abscond without too much fuss.
She grabbed a quill from the clutter of her desk. Small, she thought, beginning to write. And sweet. And something to go with tea.
The day arrived. After spending a considerably longer time than usual regarding her outfit*, Teiran ended up simply wearing her regular armour, which Marianne had fortunately taken the initiative to polish. It felt better than wearing something dressy, at least.
And, knowing how things go for me, she thought, as she carefully arranged her hat, I’ll probably have to leave halfway through to fight a dragon or something.
After leaving Marianne with a promise to return with leftovers, Teiran teleported to Burthorpe, nearly slipping on the lodestone as the town’s perpetual drizzle left it slick with rain.
Muttering a curse under her breath, as the damp turned whatever hair that wasn’t covered by her hat into a frizzy rat’s nest, Teiran headed over to the castle, giving Spria a cursory wave before heading inside.
It was considerably quiet along the way upstairs, which struck her as odd. Noon was still a few minutes away, and she would have expected to run into at least one or two people on their way. However, the only one in the entire castle was a single druidess, sitting at a table and fiddling with a Runelink grid.
There’s not even a red carpet, Teiran thought, as she reached the stairwell to the banquet hall. If it’s a fancy do, surely there’d be someone insisting on a grand entrance…
She paused at the doorway. It was quiet there, too, which struck her as even more odd; wouldn’t there be the sound of chatter?
She looked down at her invitation. Erysail, Bennath 14 at 12 p.m. So she didn’t have the day wrong.
She shook her head. Maybe the Reservists for Devoted Brethren were a bunch of silent monks. If so, then she could probably avoid the small talk…
As she opened the door, however, sound flooded her ears.
“ — know about the Staff?” she heard a woman’s voice say, impatiently. Teiran tensed, scanning the four figures in front of her.
One, a sallow-faced man dressed in a rather fancy-looking purple tunic, was hastily pocketing something as he stood by a suspiciously gap-heavy arrangement of silverware. Another man, dressed in wizard’s garb, was watching a rather fierce staring competition between a redhead and a blonde woman, the latter of whom was wielding a rather familiar-looking sword.
Teiran raised an eyebrow. “Hang about,” she said. “Is that Silverlight? I thought I left that in Melzar's Maze. How’d you manage to get in there?”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Who are you?” she asked, teeth grit and eyes flaring with frustration. “And don’t tell me…”
“I mean, I suppose it could be an extra,” Teiran quickly added. “Sir Prysin isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I managed to get another one when I dropped it on the floor and pretended I lost it. Bastard charged me afterwards, even after I slayed Delrith and everything…”
The redhead raised an eyebrow. “So there’s more than one Silverlight.”
“Well, yes,” Teiran said. “I mean, I’ve got a backup, I’ve got Darklight, and there’s my other backup I used as a hatstand for awhile…”
The woman, whose face had been becoming progressively redder, suddenly stepped forward. “You’re speaking nonsense!” she bellowed. “There can’t be more than one Silverlight!”
The wizard shrugged. “Who’s to say Gideon hasn’t been charging an entrance fee to the crypts?”
“Gideon?” Teiran said. “Who’s that? And who are you people, in any case?”
The wizard stuck out a hand. “Jordan,” he said. “He’s Riza —” he pointed to the redhead — “she’s Summer, and the guy trying to shove that candelabra into his pants is Quintus.”
There was a clatter of metal from behind her, and the sound of cursing in Infernal. However, Teiran ignored it. Instead, she reached over and shook Jordan’s hand.
“My name’s Teiran,” she said. “Nice to meet you. And I’m sure this is all just a mixup…”
“A mixup?!” Summer snapped. “How can three people, apparently all having the same sacred, demon-slaying sword be a mixup? And what’s this about slaying Delrith?”
Teiran shrugged. “I know it was a while back, but that was me. Granted, my hair was a different colour then…”
She trailed off, as she felt three sets of eyes suddenly staring her down.
“What?”
“WHAT?!”
“That’s weird…”
“How is that weird?” Teiran said. “I’ve slain lots of demons. It’s only fair I take a moment to stab the one attempting to eat Varrock.”
“About that…” Jordan said. “‘Cause unless there’s two demons running around with the same name, I’m pretty sure that I was the one —”
He never finished the sentence, as the sound of footsteps interrupted him. A handle’s rattle filled the room, just before the door slammed open.