The Purpose of Slaying Ghouls

The name of the enemy settles in his mind. The one who cornered him into this tragic outcome, the one who authored it into being at all, and so the one fundamentally to blame, is not desperate Marion who meant no ill but could not avoid it, nor Renard for any dispassion or cruelty, and not even the innocently savage ghoul for existing, but the loathsome snake that poisoned this world, and curses it still from its den deep in Nix.

Renard clenches his teeth as tears stream his face. He thought he had moved past this pain and desire, but he has not. And may never.

With a steadying breath, he wipes his face clean. A sober, prophetic certainty fills him as he envisions himself back in Verdanheim, and then a step lower, in Nix. It’s a bitter image of course — but for all the pain, the discomfort, and indignation that flares in his chest at the thought of Verdan, or the Queen, a calm sense of inevitability smooths and bridles these emotions numb.

It is not a conscious thought or knowledge, but an idea risen from some part of his heart so fundamental, he could not even begin to guess at its source.

In this strange and sober mood, Renard returns through the forest to his horse. The sight of her fills him with exhaustion, as it reminds him he must return to the lord of Fayette to debrief… then as he mounts her and begins setting out, is stricken with panic at the realisation he doesn’t know what to do about Isobel.

Asking the Queen to send him to Nix feels like what he should, and needs to do, and what he now thought he would do upon returning to Lacren — but what about Isobel?

Not ready to confront that question, Renard shoves the thought aside and urges his horse to the castle.

The Lord of Fayette receives Renard and asks how the ghoul hunt went.

“The creature is vanquished,” Renard answers. Though aggravating before, the Lord’s upbeat ignorance around the seriousness of ghoul hunting does dull the edge of imparting this information, and even with Renard’s rather flat tone of voice, makes it sound like the good news that it fundamentally is.

Wonderful! With you on the job, we hadn’t a doubt, the Lord replies. But did you find the other man who went? Surely, I hope he is well…

“He is dead," Renard says flatly.

The Lord falls silent in genuine surprise.

Renard thumbs his forehead and forces back his anger. There is an air of mythicality that hangs around successful ghoul-hunters, and in deference to that, the Lord may not have conceived this outcome. But if Renard ever needed a reminder not to indulge in delusions of invincibility, today was it.

While Renard struggles to find the right way to broach the topic, the Lord asks if they should retrieve the body.

“Dare you strip him of dignity? You will let the man lie," Renard growls with severity that surprises himself. He runs his hand over his face to steady his composure, then soberly informs that he was partway to ghouling, but Renard dealt with this — short of there being a mystery third ghoul lurking in the wilds, the forest should now be safe for whatever timbermen or adventurers want to go there.

“…Well, we should pay you then 800 lucras," the Lord notes.

Money! Such an insignificant thing against life that Renard had forgotten about it. …But actually, for how he called 400 trash, 800 in one job is quite a sum, and probably would satisfy Isobel…

Confused now to his purpose, but undeniably softened, Renard thanks the Lord for being so gracious.

Merely fair pay for fair work, the Lord answers. Although — there is another thing for which the Lord wished to employ Renard…

I will not tutor your son, Renard snaps, then is confused why he spoke so emphatically. He could make a lot of money training noblemen’s sons in swordsmanship, at quite a low risk, too. But it is that straying, and uncertainty of who or what he’d truly be serving...

Oh, no. It wasn’t that. I’m sure you’re busy, and there’s countless kingdoms like Fayette facing problems with ghouls that Renard’s business is to fix, instead of hanging around here. No, what the Lord was going to ask…

The Lord beckons down the side wing for someone to approach. Renard cranes his head to look, or at least catch a glimpse.

…You see, in truth, the Lord continues, the warnings Renard gave about Fayette’s vulnerability to ghouls have rattled the Lord. He’s never thought about it before, but the worst-case scenarios Renard described truly are, now that is thinking, frightening. So while he investigates countermeasures to such a scenario, for the time being…

Though Renard wishes to politely keep his eyes on the Lord while he speaks, the silhouette striding from the side-wing robs his attention.

It’s a woman — a rather young and pretty woman with keen eyes like an eagle. Swathed in silver, she is who was watching Renard from the balcony. She sweeps her wavy hair over her shoulder, returning Renard’s gobsmacked gaze with a subtle smile which, while evenly professional, is not rejecting or cold.

…We’ve decided it best to send a branch of the family to situate themselves in our holiday lodgings, so that, if the worst did happen here, the blood would survive. This is my niece, Colette Cayns du Fayette. The Lord plants his palm on her little shoulder. She clasps her hands, dainty and bare, in front of herself politely, beneath that even, intelligent look.

We’d be in your debt if you could escort her down the mountain, and if you could, move her in.

Too stricken by the providential excellence of this opportunity to resist it, indeed presented with the very thing Renard came to Fayette to pursue, but thought had escaped him, and regarding this beacon in his life with awed amazement, Renard drops to his knee, takes her hands, and announces to the Lord in shock too earnest for poetics:

“Your Grace, I wish that I may marry this woman."

Though Renard with head bowed sees it not, what flashes through Colette’s eyes at this bold pronouncement is a fire, of deep satisfaction.