Lersha had a tremendous soft spot in her heart for the castle of Boar’s Head. Had not her own beloved little brother not snatched the place up at the slightest rumor of it being made available the Archduchess may well have pressured her husband to acquire the place to be their own home. Even though it was a newly constructed stone and wood monstrosity it held a certain appeal that only a place of mixed architectural styles can for a person born in the faraway realm of Slothjemia. Orcish, human, and a smattering of elven and gnomish influences all played a part in making Boar’s Head a weirdly delightful place.

The room that Bortimer had chosen to be his own personal space was a bizarrely shaped affair that was suitable for nothing at all if one were to be completely honest. The windows were tall and narrow and on the wrong side of the castle to have caught any direct sunlight. The walls themselves were oddly angled and of disproportionate dimensions which precluded any attempt to do anything in décor that could be remotely considered symmetrical. The door to the room was inordinately heavy for its measurements and seemed to be a mix of steel and oak. It creaked ever so slightly on its massive hinges, and any movement of the door caused the candles and lanterns to flicker noticeably. Lersha understood her brother well enough to know that all of this, the door, the odd walls, and the ridiculous windows, all of it was what made it perfect for Bortimer.

This was because Bortimer was not just a rogue in his heart, but was a rogue in actual fact. So was his bride, the beguiling halfling Duchess Seraphina. The two of them were destined to be quite the formidable team and Boar’s Head, with its strange rooms and puzzling layout, was going to be instrumental in their having a strong and reliable base from which to operate. The creaky door and drafty air currents made this a perfect room to be in and not be snuck up upon. Any thief worth their salt would have given a king’s ransom for that kind of security.

Lersha lounged in the large overstuffed sofa that Bortimer had brought with him from his old villa in Leperstadt. It had a sort of floral fabric that had been woven and despite being heavily faded it held up remarkably well. The frame had been crafted from a reddish wood and although the smell of it had long ago worn away it managed to keep a pleasant feel, smooth and cool to the touch. There had been a set of matching pillows but now only one remained, and Lersha placed it under her knees and settled in as she watched her brother go about placing his personal items in the room.

Her brother was the least likely to be considered “well read” and yet he did own a handful of books. Some of them were the books his tutors had used when he was growing up and had to learn the basics of literature and mathematics. Others were collections of obscene poetry with lewd illustrations poorly drawn and Bortimer’s own perverse notes in the margins. Several books in his collection were artistic renderings of famous buildings in different regions of Partum, and he also had a rather impressive collection of blueprints and large sketches of these buildings and others. Most of these buildings were ones that Bortimer had broken into for his own nefarious purposes, and those that he had not yet encroached upon he fully intended to somewhere further down the road in time. He had had some shelves put in to hold his small library and the rolled up artwork he simply piled atop the books as he went.

Bemused as she was by her brother playing the role of a domesticated husband, Lersha refused to let this be just his quiet time. Her voice was almost melodic, a smoothly unsettling alto that was both more alluring and disturbing than strangers would anticipate. Bortimer was quite comfortable with it, though. He and his older sister had always gotten along famously because as black sheep often do they understood the quirks that others found distasteful.

“Has your wife read your poetry collection?” Lersha asked in their native Slothjemian.

Bortimer laughed and replied, “I’ve read to her some of it. She finds it as scandalously silly as I do.” He glanced at his sister and laughed again. “And she corrects my spelling when I add my own ideas.”

Lersha laughed along and said, “She is a wonderful woman. She deserves better than you.”

Bortimer nodded his head in agreement. “I’ve no doubts about that, my dear sister. My goal is to keep her from ever sorting that out herself.”

Still laughing, Lersha stretched and said lazily, “You’ve taken to married life faster than I would have guessed. Mother and Father should see you now. All determination and making a home for your bride.”

Bortimer paused, and set down a small coffer on the desk that sat away from the windows in a corner of the room. “I believe they would be crushed, if I am honest. Never having any faith in my ability to focus, to set a goal they deemed worthy, to then carry it out. It shatters their core beliefs in me. It is better they not see me now, and think the worst, than to have their comfortable frame of mind challenged towards another reality.”

Lersha’s laughter ceased, and she gazed silently at Bortimer for a few moments. “They don’t see you that way merely because that is the ruse you have crafted so cunningly. Father is far too astute to have ever bought that illusion, and you well know it or else you would have been more strictly disciplined. And Mother is far more cunning that either of us to be fooled by anything we have said or done.” She sighed and continued wistfully, “You know they only ever wanted happiness for you. Their fear is that your antics would scare away that happiness.”

Bortimer quietly nodded his head, and opened the small coffer to arrange the contents. Without looking at his sister he said quietly, “I believe you are correct, my dear. Our long suffering parents undoubtedly understand us better than we wish to think they do.” Closing the coffer he turned and smiled at his sister. “We are not cast in the same mold as our darling brother the adventuring hero.”

The two siblings laughed, an almost wicked laugh, as they thought of Archibald the Third. He and Lersha were twins, and more different than anyone could imagine. Lersha found her calling in magic, specifically as a witch albeit a mostly benign and well-meaning witch. But Archibald the Third had taken a page from their Father’s guidebook to life and chosen to be a paladin. Not a full-blown paladin with all of the special abilities and whatnot, because his mixed ancestry made this an impossibility even in the decidedly open-minded society of Slothjemia. But he was a warrior, and a most noble one at that. Lersha and Bortimer delighted in fighting dirty, in using whatever tricks they could imagine to get the upper hand whether it was in a real fight, a petty business deal, or just a casual social encounter. This wasn’t the way that Archibald went about things, though. And while he stuck true to his calling as a warrior for the faith, it was he that was viewed by Lersha and Bortimer as being the true black sheep of their family.

Naturally the siblings didn’t call him Archibald the Third. To them he was just Trey, a wandering knight on a never ending quest to do what was right for those that could not do it themselves. Nobody had ever thought that Lersha and Bortimer would ever settle down in married life and be “normal.” But for Trey it was a given. He would not marry. He would not settle down. Trey had things to do and places to go. What they were and where was anybody’s guess.