A new day. The smell of breakfast, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, a bustling household of attendants and house guests... Castle Fremont had become a busy place since the crew had arrived for their investigation.

The baron, the owner of the castle, was... interesting, in a way. He seemed down-to-earth and normal, but as anyone who saw fit to accompany him that morning would find, he seemed to have a particular way about him—certain morning rituals that continued regardless of what was going on, or how heavy the situation was. Fencing on the lawn was one of them. Today, however, he didn't have his usual sparring partner.

The baron stepped out the front door to the courtyard. A dark, wine-colored automobile (the one that had been tarped and covered on their previous visits) was sitting, idling, the steward Deverell at the wheel. Though it had only been recently uncovered and started, flecks of white snow were beginning to accumulate on its hood and roof, coming down from the grey sky. It a new blanket of snow was already forming on the ground. So much for the sunny weather of the previous day.

"Deverell!" called Dureau, waving a hand.

The white ermine, spitting image of Dureau that he was, rolled down the window of the car and gave the baron a blank, maybe slightly tired look. "Yes, monsieur?"

Dureau jogged across the cobblestone—a quick, but very erect and stately cape-fluttering jog, of course—up to the window, épée in hand. "No fencing today?"

"Forgive me, monsieur," replied Deverell, nearly monotone. "I have errands in Mersey, and I feel a bit ill today. I'm going to see the doctor."

"Oh," replied the baron with a blink, then stood straight. "As you were, then. Good day—feel better."

"Thank you. Good day, monsieur."

And with that, Deverell drove off. Dureau stood there for a moment, intently thoughtful about something.




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Ivan was fresh out of bed and helped himself to a plate of eggs, toast and bacon. With plate in hand, he headed out to the courtyard to see another display of graceful fencing between gentlemen. Something he found quite...cute for lack of a better word.

He scooped up a forkfull of scrambled eggs as he walked outside and shoveled them into his mouth, just in time to see Dureau's sparring partner leave.

"Arr... Did I miss the match?" He asked with a mouth full of egg and disappointment.

Ivan canted his head, hanging his fork from his mouth when Sir Corin entered the scene. Ivan was about 3 seconds from issuing a challenge of his own, but oh well. Last thing Ivan needed was to let his food get cold before he could finish it. He dug the fork back into his eggs and scooped another forkfull into his mouth.

Then Jack begun the interrogations. The question obviously knocked Dureau off his comfort zone for a moment. That certainly made Ivan curious. However, at the moment, he was a bit too focused on finishing breakfast to push for answers just yet.

He set the fork down on his plate and picked up one of the strips of bacon and chomped down.

It certainly didn't take long. As poised and and skilled as the baron may have looked, his spar with Corin lasted all of a few seconds. It seemed his form was good, and his footwork was good, but he just... wasn't quite aggressive enough to do anything except get backed up by the other fighter's dramatic onslaught, then get poked in the gut.

Ivan's duel was over similarly quickly, but with inverse results. No one could be quite sure whether or not the rabbit had cheated (it did not look like he employed any typical fencing methods, suffice to say), but there was no disputing the stabby outcome. It was a good thing the swords were blunted.

"Well, with the home team now thoroughly embarrassed," started Dureau, in good humor, "we should probably get started."

So, what did they have on the agenda?

Well, they had been attacked by some mysterious freaks, but had no leads. There was still a robot lying in shambles in a butcher's shop (also lying in shambles), and no one had really investigated its remains. At the baron's request, the police had set up a perimeter to protect the evidence, but had been told to touch nothing.

Meanwhile, there remained the other victims' homes and workplaces that Luc had marked on their maps... and, lastly, Jack's curious questioning.

It was hard to say if anything would come of the day, but they had a little more to go on than yesterday, anyway.

Dureau bit the inside of his lip thoughtfully, then answered, "Actually, I do have my uncle's old service pistol." He looked over his shoulder, toward the house. "Lu—"

"Already on it, sir!" called the butler merrily from the front doorstep, shuffling hurriedly along.

Dureau blinked, returned his (subtly amused) gaze to Jack, smiled, and shrugged. "It may not be what you're used to... It is accurate, though."

It seemed like only seconds before the little groundhog butler, wine-colored coattail flapping, half-shuffled, half-jogged back out to them. He held out an ornate cherrywood box with brass fixtures, then flipped its lid open to present its contents to the lady.

"All it does is sit in its box, anyway," replied Dureau dismissively as he plucked the pistol up held it out to her. "Uncle hasn't so much as looked at since the war. I'm the only one who 'plays' with it anymore."

Long-barreled and sleek, yet completely foreign looking, the pistol was definitely a piece of craftsmanship. Well-loved (which is to say a bit worn, scratched, and nicked) and well-oiled, and hand-machined to exacting precision, where it pointed was pretty much where the bullet would go, within a reasonable range. By either coincidence or dumb luck, its grip angle was such that it pointed very naturally like the single-action army revolvers Jack was accustomed to.

He went to load up one of the weapon's magazines for her, but took noticeable pause when he noticed that all three were already topped off.

"... Have these been loaded all this ti—"

"I took care of it a moment ago, sir," replied Luc, chipper and proud of himself as ever.

With a welp tilt of his head, and an under-the-breath commendation of "... very good, then," the baron, who never seemed to get quite used to Luc's productivity, despite living with him, procured the other magazines and turned them over to Jack's care.

"Shall we, then?"