(Untitled)

[blue_eyed_lord]

It is Midwinter's Day and the Black Rider is in the bar, a cold shadow in the warm-lit room. Subtle tension is noticeable in his stance, leaning as if at ease against an unoccupied table. That the tension shows at all is a measure of how great it is. Impassively, he watches the snow accumulate on the far side of the windowpane, obscuring the

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[hands_unclean]

She carries nothing but the clothes on her back, and the knowledge and the power in her being. And a smile, of a certain tenor.

"Well met, my lord."

The shiver is anticipation.

[blue_eyed_lord]

He straightens, arms crossed. "One would hope. All is ready and well, set up to cover our departure. And you?"

[hands_unclean]

She lifts her chin to look him in the eye. "Macbeth is settled. I am trackless, and wait only on your lead."

[blue_eyed_lord]

"And you are settled about Macbeth?" It is the sort of question many in Lady Macbeth's position have been asked, over the centuries. They must be sure.