Mariette wakes as a lone bell chimes over the town, its melancholic bass echoing over the rooftops. The morning sun jumps through the window and flashes against her face. She grimaces against the blinding light and sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She yawns and in a sleepy voice asks aloud, "Good morning Armen, how did you sleep?" As she turns to look where he slept that night, she gasps as she sees him still kneeling against his sword. The puddle of blood around his knees now black and stained into the floor, while his head hung low. He stays motionless as she hurriedly clambers out of bed and, in a brisk pace, steps behind him. She grabs his shoulder and gives him a gentle shake, "Armen, hath thou been here all night?? Come now, get up. Ye need to sleep proper..." She commands as she begins to pull his arm up.

  The motion causes Armen to jolt awake, "What! Who goes there?", and he suddenly springs to his feet, pulling his still-sheathed sword up with one hand while the other pushes against Mariette, intending to move her away from harm while he glances with bloodshot eyes into the corner he faced, his breath heavy and startled.

  Upon realizing that there were no danger to behold, he turns to Mariette, "What is wrong? Why do you wake me?"

  Mariette stutters a response, "I-I uh... I'm terribly sorry, Armen. I had thought that you were still awake, you were postured in prayer. I meant not to startle you. Please forgive me."

  Armen sighs lightly, not frustrated, but hassled, "Sister, you must not worry over me like so. I shall concern myself in being well, you must mind that you too, are kept able. Fret not of myself, I shall persist on my own accord."

  Mariette shrinks away, sore at his apathy to her concern. She looks at him with her nose pointed at the floor, "I'm sorry, I only meant to help."

  Armen looks at her gentle manners and winces at her gloom, reassuring her, "I meant no condemnation of you. I thank thee for your nurturing heart, but it is wasted upon one like myself. I wish for your intentions to be bestowed upon those more deserving than I."

  Mariette, with a new look of concern over his own well-being and less of her glum, only acknowledges him with a gentle bow of her head. She then turns to collect her veil and return it to rest upon her head, covering her neck and shoulders with its usual drapery. Armen ties his belt and slings his satchel over his shoulder before looking to Mariette, "We shall first check with the postmaster; perhaps he is now able to send a message for us."

  They leave the room and descend the stairs to the tavern, finding only a few patrons that nursed their morning tankards of beer before they began their work for the day. The badger at the bar nodded at Armen politely as he wiped the bar down with a cloth; Armen nods in kind. Despite the less ideal reception of them, Armen also understood the newly realized respect that came from that old badger and was more than willing to return it.

  Mariette and Armen exit the tavern and cross the street to the postmaster's hut and pigeon-loft tower, upon trying the door, they find it opens with ease and they enter. Immediately adjacent the door was a large desk, littered with old papers and quills and half-melted candles. An old and graying fox, not quite bleached of his amber color, was sitting in a chair behind it, his tired eyes squinting at the newcomers through his spectacles. He wore a faded tunic that was tied at his waist by a rope, his portly gut spilling over his own waist. While he sat at Armen's chest height, that was only due to the tall stool, in fact he had short legs akin to stumps attached below his hips.

  "Ohhhh! Newcomers hmmm?" the fox hooted with a jovial excitement, "I hardly see any faces in this town, let alone new ones!" he chuckles at his own jesting as he taps the wire rims over his eyes. As Armen and Mariette come to stand at the desk, the post master's eyes flash quickly with surprise as he is able to discern the human male standing before him. He coughs gently into his hands and collects himself, regaining his demeanor. "Oh a human? I haven't seen one like you in a lifetime, back when I traveled as a lad. I can't imagine the reception you have received here, hehe, fret not, though, for I view anyone as a sibling under God. I am known as William, postmaster. What brings you to my humble post?"

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  Armen bows his head in acknowledgment and introduces himself and Mariette, "I am Armen. Beside me is sister Mariette. We require a message to be sent. I hope that you might assist us."

  William nods enthusiastically, "Oh yes! Yes! I absolutely can. Where is this letter being sent?" He wipes clutter from the desktop, various papers and stationary clatters to the floor. He grabs a quill that still remained atop and dips it into the inkwell before tearing a strip of parchment from a large sheet from under the desk. William looks up from his prepared desk at Armen, an excited suspense within his gaze.

  "It must be sent to Cathedral, to the Inquisitorial chapel." Armen announces, taking pause to allow William to write. The scratching of the quill consumes the silence held within the room. Armen looks about the room while William scribbles; it was cluttered with haphazard piles of parchment across the floor, a few standalone shelves were lined against the walls with various books ranging from pigeon care to short-hand writing translations. A cubby shelf stood against the wall behind William, stuffed with forgotten scrolls and letters for people that never retrieved them. The whole hut seemed to be a forgotten library of notes for others lives. Armen looks back to William, who now looked up at him expectantly, waiting for more instruction.

  Armen would rather write the note himself, but he saw the portly old man's joy in finally having need of his work once again. Armen, with a skeptical allowance of informing this man, asks him, "Mister William... I should not allow you to know of this message. However, I understand that you know how to relay the proper information in such a manner that I could not. So I ask of you: Can you be trusted with knowledge that cannot, under any circumstances, be given freely to anyone outside of the immediate recipients?"

  William almost gasps at Armen's query, blatantly enamored with the thought of directing information of such import. He nods with such vigor that his spectacles nearly bounce off of his nose, "Oh yes! Absolutely! I shall carry this knowledge with myself until death claims me. Not a single soul upon this world shall know what is written by me here. The Lord himself would have difficulty in pulling your words from me."

  Armen smiles gently underneath his helm, feeling the warmth in his chest that often accompanied being kind to others. "Good man. Now, please short-hand this as well as you can." Armen directs as he begins to recreate his journey thus far. Taking care to emphasize the most important events, finally concluding his story with a request of aid or direction from his superiors. William, dutifully, etches into the parchment every notable detail he could fit onto the long strip, his quill nearly a blur as he kept pace with Armen's speech. Finally, William sighs in relief, "My... Thou hath quite a tale." then he rises from his seat to grab a small leather cylinder, rolling the parchment and stuffing it inside. "I don't think a pigeon would be fast enough for such news. However, if you are well with the idea, I may send it to a falconry and have them send from there. It would likely be a day sooner."

  Armen shakes his head in denial, "No. I wish for this letter to pass through as few hands as possible. Have it sent directly to Cathedral..." William winces as he prepares to give news likely to upset, "I'm afraid the letter must pass through another post master, for I have no pigeons that are from Cathedral. But!" he says as he raises his hands placatingly, "I trust this post more than I trust my late wife. I assure ye, they are discreet and honorable. I shall only mark the carrier with a red ribbon and address to Cathedral. Thou needn't worry about this letter falling into the wrong hands."

  Folding his arms across his chest, Armen presses, "And you guarantee that they are well-to-do? Sound of morals and conviction of their jobs?" William nods again, almost more vigorous than the last. "Indeed. I stake my life upon it."

  "So be it. Do what you must. My reservations are sated." Armen allows while he drops a few pieces of silver onto the desk. Then, he and Mariette exit the building and stand outside a moment, now needing to establish a plan for their day.