I can assure you that this story will be completed; I have nearly finished writing it before I posted anything. Chapter I is complete, Chapter II is finished and being polished, Chapter III is finished and being polished, Chapter IV is half done, and Chapter V is sketched in. I will post one chapter every third day, so the next part is due on Tuesday. I’m taking a slower pace with this one; I’m busy working on Red Hand and this is just something I scribble when I need a break and change of subject matter.
I wrote one small part of this for ‘guess the author’ over in AAR central, but found I had too many ideas to limit to the short story, and so a short series was born. There have been changes since the submission for GTA, so if you have read this there don’t expect everything to be the same. I wrote much of this in just one day; I already had my ideas set out well enough. Unlike Red Hand this has not spawned so many ideas I am forced to throw 90% of them away, and so it is in no danger of being turned into a manuscript for a book
Dragon will be about 20 pages long when done, so you won’t be here for months.
This is more story than AAR; it isn’t based on a game I have played, more on a theoretical game I might one day play, or on the viewpoint of the Welsh in my England 1.0 game. Once again, this is a story intensely focused on its characters, as a game it could be summed up in one sentence; you have been warned.
Dragon’s Tears
Wales: June 3 1267
The messenger knelt on the cold stone floor in front of his liege, waiting, along with the rest of the court, for his verdict. The tension was so thick it could have been cut with a knife; men and women growing more anxious by the moment, for they all knew what this letter meant. The king of England was turning his ambition to their homelands; now they had a choice that was no choice, surrender and foreign rule, or open war against a superior foe.
Huw ap Rhys, duke of Gwynedd and count of Powys and Perfed-Dwlad, was a heavy set, powerfully built man. His raven black hair and beard were dashed liberally with silver, although it made him look dignified rather than old. No one could call him handsome, but nor could they call him ugly; his majestic bearing and quiet dignity made people forget that he was actually a half hand shorter than most men. In the three and a bit decades he had been duke Huw had earned a reputation for being a fair, thoughtful man, one always as active and sprightly as a boy. Now he rose to his feet, his forty-seven years suddenly weighing heavily on him, and his people knew their situation was worse than they feared.
Huw spoke quietly, but with authority, “It is my decision…that there cannot be a decision, not here and now; not like this. I stand as good father to my people, but a wise father will listen to his family. I cannot say peace or war alone in this; the balance of loss to gain is too great. I will withdraw along with my council, and we will talk on this.”
The chamber filled with the hushed murmurings of a concerned audience; it was rare indeed for Huw to consult with his council before deciding the course of action. Now, as Huw and the four members of his inner council left the audience chamber, speculation ran rife.
In the small council chamber of the stone castle the five sat down at the table. Huw looked at each member in turn; Idwal the marshal, a tall and stocky man of thirty-one years with cornflower blue eyes and darkish blonde hair, he would advise war. Teleri, a dark haired, plain young woman promoted to spymaster at the tender age of sixteen due to her outstanding skill; she would advise war too. The old, white haired man to Huw’s left was Pwyll, the steward; even though Huw had known Pwyll all his life it was hard to predict his council. Finally there was the chancellor, Meurig, a softly spoken man in his mid twenties; he would council caution and peace.
“I think you will all be able to guess at what the English king wants.” Huw ran a hand through his shoulder length hair, sweeping it back from his face, “He demands my immediate submission and homage, with my son and fifty other high ranking nobles to go to his court as hostages ensuring my good faith. He stipulates that as part of the kingdom of England we adopt their laws and culture, and as vassals we owe him control of our armies, payment of scutage and other taxes. He claims my titles, though he says he will leave me as count of Powys if I submit without bloodshed. Finally, he says we have only this one chance, if we defy him he will muster against us and we will have no other chance for a peaceful resolution.”
“He would stamp our culture out of existence.” said Meurig, “He’d turn us into Englishmen. We cannot allow this.”
“You would say war, then?” asked Huw, the heaviness on his heart growing. If a peaceful man like Meurig thought bloodshed was the only way then there was little hope of an alternative being discovered.
“I like it not, but I like the prospect of being an Englishman far less.”
“Perhaps there is an alternative?” Idwal looked significantly at Teleri; the others in the room did likewise.
“I don’t know why you’re all looking at me, unless…my new dress must have worked wonders and made me as beautiful as the lady Elen. I should pay my tailor more.” Her eyes flicked about the room, resting for a second on each face, calculating the mood by each person’s reaction to her jesting; the result was even more depressing than she had feared. “You want to know if I can assassinate the English king? To make things certain we would also have to kill his three sons, his bastard, and his grandson; I think that is a few too many for even the best of spymasters, don’t you?”
“Will no one offer a view that avoids war?” asked Huw. None of the four spoke.
Pwyll avoided his lord’s eyes, and said, “Our alliance with Scotland will help; they must come to our aid, they must. It’d be a fool indeed who stood idle by while England expanded, sparing his armies now only to face greater numbers alone later.”
“We can refuse them battle.” contributed Idwal, “Fight them in the hills and trees, pick them off at our leisure. We may be outnumbered but that’ll not matter if we avoid pitched battle. With the northern border under attack from Scotland the king will have to split his force, and that will help us. Scotland will take the larger of his two armies to quell
“Then it is war.” Huw crossed himself, “War; may God have mercy upon us.”
Huw had scarcely opened the door to the solar when Cynan yelled, “Papa!” and ran over, flinging his arms about his father’s legs, nearly tripping him. Huw laughed, ruffling his golden hair with his free hand.
“Take me with you.” begged the boy, “I want to fight too!”
“You’re too young.”
“I’m five years, three months and twelve days old now!” Cynan puffed up proudly, “I asked Mama.” ‘Mama’ kept sewing, sitting in the window seat to benefit from the fading evening light; Elen was a universally acknowledged beauty and the soft lighting only improved that, outlining her oval face and making her ivory skin seem even closer to that ideal of pure white. Her waist length hair, so blonde it seemed silver, was bound up in a long plait; a simple style that was unfashionable but suited her.
A poet with uncommon honesty would have said her face was currently marred by a small frown but Huw would have argued; he seldom understood what she was thinking but in this case he was certain he knew and that made the frown rather likeable. “I doubt she said you were old enough to go fighting, and from the look on her face she’s thinking the same about me.”
Cynan tugged on his father’s tunic hem until he leaned down, “She’s been like that all day.” confided the boy seriously.
“I think she’s going to shout at me.” replied Huw equally gravely, looking at his wife out of the corner of his eye; she ignored him and kept working away at one of Cynan’s tunics, repairing a ripped hem. Huw pushed his son gently towards the door, “You’d best run along, your mother knows some choice swear words that are not for young ears.”
Cynan’s eyes went wide, “Really?” he gasped, all sudden admiration for his mother.
Elen neatly threaded her needled through the tunic material and laid her sewing to one side, “Where would a well brought up noble like me learn to swear?”
“Some bad influence or other.” Huw grinned, “Like me.” He encouraged Cynan out the door, “Tell Idwal I said you could look at my armour.” he said, a bribe to forestall any protests his son might make. The boy whooped and ran off down the spiral staircase, headed to the armoury.
“Me, swearing and shouting?” Elen shook her head, “I don’t know where you get your delusions.”
“A little awed respect goes long way; you’ll need all the help you can get - that boy will not be happy at being left behind.” Huw regarded his wife; even after more than six years of marriage he still didn’t understand her half the time. Still, he told himself, she was only twenty-two and there was half a lifetime between them, so that was to be expected. “I thought I might leave Idwal here to handle the castle’s garrison while I lead the army; our capital must be protected.”
“I doubt that is a good idea.” said Elen carefully, always wary of contradicting Huw to openly; he had a habit, she often decided, of doing exactly what she didn’t want him to.
“Why?”
“Because your marshal worships the ground I walk on. Because I am too fond of him for my own good. Because I remember what happened last time, six years ago.” Elen noticed Huw staring at her, and realised she had a small, dreamy smile on her face; she quickly removed it, “Wales will need all the fighting men available.”
“Our capital still needs guarding; we can win great victories on the field, but if the capital falls into enemy hands, and my family along with it, then we will have lost.” Huw crossed the room and sat down next to her at the window; taking one of her hands and clasping it between his own he looked earnestly into her clear blue eyes, “I can’t bear to think of anything happening to you or our son; I must know you are safe.” he didn’t add that he knew this war was going to be finely balanced between victory and total defeat, and that he expected Idwal to get her and Cynan away safely if the worst should happen.
“You are more concerned about Cynan than me.” She didn’t mean to say that; one thought that had lurked at the back of her mind for years now, finally out in the open.
Huw looked uncomfortable, “It’s true in its way; the boy is the future of Gwynedd. After two barren marriages I thought I would die childless, but then…he is a blessing in answer to my prayers, seemingly a singular blessing. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you; you know better than that.”
“I care about you too.” “Slightly, in a business like way.” “I wouldn’t worry as much if Idwal was with you.”
“And I will worry too much if he isn’t with you; I’m the one who’ll be fighting a war, so I think my peace of mind is more important. I’ll be back sooner if I fight with a clear head.”
“Stop tempting me!” Although inwardly she was screaming, outwardly she was as calm as a lake on a summer’s day, “I know how to run a castle under siege.”
“Idwal stays with you and that’s my final word.”
Later that evening Huw sought Idwal out; he found the marshal in the armoury, going through the castle’s stores of arrows and crossbow bolts. “I always keep things well stocked” he explained, “ but we still need more; there are so many English soon to be headed our way we’ll run out of arrows before we kill them all.” It was a poor jest and both men knew it.
Huw didn’t know how best to break his news, so he put it bluntly, “I’m leaving you behind; you’re to guard the capital.”
“And your family?” guessed Idwal shrewdly.
“Yes…I want you to look after them as if they were your own; this is as likely to go sour as not, I want to be sure you’ll get them safely away if things go badly.”
“I will look after them as if they were my own, you may be sure of that.”
England: June 16 1267
William Fitz Roi entered his father’s private chamber and began to kneel before him, only to be stopped when the king clasped him warmly by the shoulders.
“No need for that, son, no, none at all.” king Lionel the Cruel stepped back, holding his son at arms length, “Let me look at you; the sight of my finest son always makes this old man glad the Lord has let him live on to see you grow.” William patently stood while his father gazed at him, knowing that he would see the same he always did; a tall, strapping young man with blue-green eyes and black hair cropped close in a style some had named a ‘bowl cut’. At twenty-five he was the youngest of the king’s sons, and he looked every inch the regal lord; even if he had dressed in a beggar’s rags William was certain he’d still be taken for a noble. For the first time William looked back at his father, really looked, and what he saw shocked him; an old, frail man who looked ill.
His thoughts must have shown; Lionel smiled sadly, “Yes, I am growing old and infirm; that is why I am determined to settle matters for you and your half brothers now, before it is too late. You know I’m sixty-nine now? A rare age, few live so long.”
“Sit down, father.” William was ashamed to hear his voice crack, he covered it with a cough, as though there was something in his throat, then repeated more clearly, “Sit down and rest, England needs you still.” He helped the old man over to his fireside chair and got him settled.
Lionel kept his hand on William’s arm, refusing to let go, “I remember your mother…so long ago now; she’s so pretty.” he smiled, his fragile mind wandering, “You know her eyes are the same colour as yours? Yes, I always liked her eyes, I tell her that, you know? Yes, Every time I see her I tell her…”
A lump rose in William’s throat; his mother had been dead more than nine years now. Lionel knew that…once, and sometimes he knew it still.
As abruptly as the old man’s wanderings had begun they ended, once again his eyes focused on the present, “I cannot make you my heir; you are my favourite and most capable son, but it cannot be.”
“I know, father.”
“The Welsh, they have strange laws; they care not about the legitimacy of a son, only that he is acknowledged by his father. By their laws I’d make you my heir, I’ve acknowledged you, you bear your parentage in your name.” Lionel paused, and looked his son in the eyes, begging for understanding, “I cannot make you king of England.”
“I know; it matters not.” William meant it; as a bastard he had known all his life he could never inherit. Unlike some men he had been able to make his peace with that; letting go his dreams of what never could have been with scarcely a second thought.
“I cannot make you king of England, but I can put you in a position where you can become king of Wales; that will be your inheritance. You will forge that scattered country into a kingdom, civilise it and bring it to our fold. As king you will be independent of your brother, Henry; but I ask of you both that you remain close allies.”
William considered; he and Henry got on well enough, “I give you my word that I will start no rifts with my brother.”
“Good…good.” the king’s eyes began to droop, “I’ve started a war with Gwynedd, you will lead my armies, you will take all of Huw ap Rhys’ titles and lands in England’s name. Go, claim your kingdom’s start, and remember your promise once you have your crown.”
William waited until his father dozed off, and then crept to the door, slipping out silently.
I wrote one small part of this for ‘guess the author’ over in AAR central, but found I had too many ideas to limit to the short story, and so a short series was born. There have been changes since the submission for GTA, so if you have read this there don’t expect everything to be the same. I wrote much of this in just one day; I already had my ideas set out well enough. Unlike Red Hand this has not spawned so many ideas I am forced to throw 90% of them away, and so it is in no danger of being turned into a manuscript for a book
Dragon will be about 20 pages long when done, so you won’t be here for months.
This is more story than AAR; it isn’t based on a game I have played, more on a theoretical game I might one day play, or on the viewpoint of the Welsh in my England 1.0 game. Once again, this is a story intensely focused on its characters, as a game it could be summed up in one sentence; you have been warned.
Chapter I
A wise father
A wise father
Wales: June 3 1267
The messenger knelt on the cold stone floor in front of his liege, waiting, along with the rest of the court, for his verdict. The tension was so thick it could have been cut with a knife; men and women growing more anxious by the moment, for they all knew what this letter meant. The king of England was turning his ambition to their homelands; now they had a choice that was no choice, surrender and foreign rule, or open war against a superior foe.
Huw ap Rhys, duke of Gwynedd and count of Powys and Perfed-Dwlad, was a heavy set, powerfully built man. His raven black hair and beard were dashed liberally with silver, although it made him look dignified rather than old. No one could call him handsome, but nor could they call him ugly; his majestic bearing and quiet dignity made people forget that he was actually a half hand shorter than most men. In the three and a bit decades he had been duke Huw had earned a reputation for being a fair, thoughtful man, one always as active and sprightly as a boy. Now he rose to his feet, his forty-seven years suddenly weighing heavily on him, and his people knew their situation was worse than they feared.
Huw spoke quietly, but with authority, “It is my decision…that there cannot be a decision, not here and now; not like this. I stand as good father to my people, but a wise father will listen to his family. I cannot say peace or war alone in this; the balance of loss to gain is too great. I will withdraw along with my council, and we will talk on this.”
The chamber filled with the hushed murmurings of a concerned audience; it was rare indeed for Huw to consult with his council before deciding the course of action. Now, as Huw and the four members of his inner council left the audience chamber, speculation ran rife.
In the small council chamber of the stone castle the five sat down at the table. Huw looked at each member in turn; Idwal the marshal, a tall and stocky man of thirty-one years with cornflower blue eyes and darkish blonde hair, he would advise war. Teleri, a dark haired, plain young woman promoted to spymaster at the tender age of sixteen due to her outstanding skill; she would advise war too. The old, white haired man to Huw’s left was Pwyll, the steward; even though Huw had known Pwyll all his life it was hard to predict his council. Finally there was the chancellor, Meurig, a softly spoken man in his mid twenties; he would council caution and peace.
“I think you will all be able to guess at what the English king wants.” Huw ran a hand through his shoulder length hair, sweeping it back from his face, “He demands my immediate submission and homage, with my son and fifty other high ranking nobles to go to his court as hostages ensuring my good faith. He stipulates that as part of the kingdom of England we adopt their laws and culture, and as vassals we owe him control of our armies, payment of scutage and other taxes. He claims my titles, though he says he will leave me as count of Powys if I submit without bloodshed. Finally, he says we have only this one chance, if we defy him he will muster against us and we will have no other chance for a peaceful resolution.”
“He would stamp our culture out of existence.” said Meurig, “He’d turn us into Englishmen. We cannot allow this.”
“You would say war, then?” asked Huw, the heaviness on his heart growing. If a peaceful man like Meurig thought bloodshed was the only way then there was little hope of an alternative being discovered.
“I like it not, but I like the prospect of being an Englishman far less.”
“Perhaps there is an alternative?” Idwal looked significantly at Teleri; the others in the room did likewise.
“I don’t know why you’re all looking at me, unless…my new dress must have worked wonders and made me as beautiful as the lady Elen. I should pay my tailor more.” Her eyes flicked about the room, resting for a second on each face, calculating the mood by each person’s reaction to her jesting; the result was even more depressing than she had feared. “You want to know if I can assassinate the English king? To make things certain we would also have to kill his three sons, his bastard, and his grandson; I think that is a few too many for even the best of spymasters, don’t you?”
“Will no one offer a view that avoids war?” asked Huw. None of the four spoke.
Pwyll avoided his lord’s eyes, and said, “Our alliance with Scotland will help; they must come to our aid, they must. It’d be a fool indeed who stood idle by while England expanded, sparing his armies now only to face greater numbers alone later.”
“We can refuse them battle.” contributed Idwal, “Fight them in the hills and trees, pick them off at our leisure. We may be outnumbered but that’ll not matter if we avoid pitched battle. With the northern border under attack from Scotland the king will have to split his force, and that will help us. Scotland will take the larger of his two armies to quell
“Then it is war.” Huw crossed himself, “War; may God have mercy upon us.”
Huw had scarcely opened the door to the solar when Cynan yelled, “Papa!” and ran over, flinging his arms about his father’s legs, nearly tripping him. Huw laughed, ruffling his golden hair with his free hand.
“Take me with you.” begged the boy, “I want to fight too!”
“You’re too young.”
“I’m five years, three months and twelve days old now!” Cynan puffed up proudly, “I asked Mama.” ‘Mama’ kept sewing, sitting in the window seat to benefit from the fading evening light; Elen was a universally acknowledged beauty and the soft lighting only improved that, outlining her oval face and making her ivory skin seem even closer to that ideal of pure white. Her waist length hair, so blonde it seemed silver, was bound up in a long plait; a simple style that was unfashionable but suited her.
A poet with uncommon honesty would have said her face was currently marred by a small frown but Huw would have argued; he seldom understood what she was thinking but in this case he was certain he knew and that made the frown rather likeable. “I doubt she said you were old enough to go fighting, and from the look on her face she’s thinking the same about me.”
Cynan tugged on his father’s tunic hem until he leaned down, “She’s been like that all day.” confided the boy seriously.
“I think she’s going to shout at me.” replied Huw equally gravely, looking at his wife out of the corner of his eye; she ignored him and kept working away at one of Cynan’s tunics, repairing a ripped hem. Huw pushed his son gently towards the door, “You’d best run along, your mother knows some choice swear words that are not for young ears.”
Cynan’s eyes went wide, “Really?” he gasped, all sudden admiration for his mother.
Elen neatly threaded her needled through the tunic material and laid her sewing to one side, “Where would a well brought up noble like me learn to swear?”
“Some bad influence or other.” Huw grinned, “Like me.” He encouraged Cynan out the door, “Tell Idwal I said you could look at my armour.” he said, a bribe to forestall any protests his son might make. The boy whooped and ran off down the spiral staircase, headed to the armoury.
“Me, swearing and shouting?” Elen shook her head, “I don’t know where you get your delusions.”
“A little awed respect goes long way; you’ll need all the help you can get - that boy will not be happy at being left behind.” Huw regarded his wife; even after more than six years of marriage he still didn’t understand her half the time. Still, he told himself, she was only twenty-two and there was half a lifetime between them, so that was to be expected. “I thought I might leave Idwal here to handle the castle’s garrison while I lead the army; our capital must be protected.”
“I doubt that is a good idea.” said Elen carefully, always wary of contradicting Huw to openly; he had a habit, she often decided, of doing exactly what she didn’t want him to.
“Why?”
“Because your marshal worships the ground I walk on. Because I am too fond of him for my own good. Because I remember what happened last time, six years ago.” Elen noticed Huw staring at her, and realised she had a small, dreamy smile on her face; she quickly removed it, “Wales will need all the fighting men available.”
“Our capital still needs guarding; we can win great victories on the field, but if the capital falls into enemy hands, and my family along with it, then we will have lost.” Huw crossed the room and sat down next to her at the window; taking one of her hands and clasping it between his own he looked earnestly into her clear blue eyes, “I can’t bear to think of anything happening to you or our son; I must know you are safe.” he didn’t add that he knew this war was going to be finely balanced between victory and total defeat, and that he expected Idwal to get her and Cynan away safely if the worst should happen.
“You are more concerned about Cynan than me.” She didn’t mean to say that; one thought that had lurked at the back of her mind for years now, finally out in the open.
Huw looked uncomfortable, “It’s true in its way; the boy is the future of Gwynedd. After two barren marriages I thought I would die childless, but then…he is a blessing in answer to my prayers, seemingly a singular blessing. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you; you know better than that.”
“I care about you too.” “Slightly, in a business like way.” “I wouldn’t worry as much if Idwal was with you.”
“And I will worry too much if he isn’t with you; I’m the one who’ll be fighting a war, so I think my peace of mind is more important. I’ll be back sooner if I fight with a clear head.”
“Stop tempting me!” Although inwardly she was screaming, outwardly she was as calm as a lake on a summer’s day, “I know how to run a castle under siege.”
“Idwal stays with you and that’s my final word.”
Later that evening Huw sought Idwal out; he found the marshal in the armoury, going through the castle’s stores of arrows and crossbow bolts. “I always keep things well stocked” he explained, “ but we still need more; there are so many English soon to be headed our way we’ll run out of arrows before we kill them all.” It was a poor jest and both men knew it.
Huw didn’t know how best to break his news, so he put it bluntly, “I’m leaving you behind; you’re to guard the capital.”
“And your family?” guessed Idwal shrewdly.
“Yes…I want you to look after them as if they were your own; this is as likely to go sour as not, I want to be sure you’ll get them safely away if things go badly.”
“I will look after them as if they were my own, you may be sure of that.”
England: June 16 1267
William Fitz Roi entered his father’s private chamber and began to kneel before him, only to be stopped when the king clasped him warmly by the shoulders.
“No need for that, son, no, none at all.” king Lionel the Cruel stepped back, holding his son at arms length, “Let me look at you; the sight of my finest son always makes this old man glad the Lord has let him live on to see you grow.” William patently stood while his father gazed at him, knowing that he would see the same he always did; a tall, strapping young man with blue-green eyes and black hair cropped close in a style some had named a ‘bowl cut’. At twenty-five he was the youngest of the king’s sons, and he looked every inch the regal lord; even if he had dressed in a beggar’s rags William was certain he’d still be taken for a noble. For the first time William looked back at his father, really looked, and what he saw shocked him; an old, frail man who looked ill.
His thoughts must have shown; Lionel smiled sadly, “Yes, I am growing old and infirm; that is why I am determined to settle matters for you and your half brothers now, before it is too late. You know I’m sixty-nine now? A rare age, few live so long.”
“Sit down, father.” William was ashamed to hear his voice crack, he covered it with a cough, as though there was something in his throat, then repeated more clearly, “Sit down and rest, England needs you still.” He helped the old man over to his fireside chair and got him settled.
Lionel kept his hand on William’s arm, refusing to let go, “I remember your mother…so long ago now; she’s so pretty.” he smiled, his fragile mind wandering, “You know her eyes are the same colour as yours? Yes, I always liked her eyes, I tell her that, you know? Yes, Every time I see her I tell her…”
A lump rose in William’s throat; his mother had been dead more than nine years now. Lionel knew that…once, and sometimes he knew it still.
As abruptly as the old man’s wanderings had begun they ended, once again his eyes focused on the present, “I cannot make you my heir; you are my favourite and most capable son, but it cannot be.”
“I know, father.”
“The Welsh, they have strange laws; they care not about the legitimacy of a son, only that he is acknowledged by his father. By their laws I’d make you my heir, I’ve acknowledged you, you bear your parentage in your name.” Lionel paused, and looked his son in the eyes, begging for understanding, “I cannot make you king of England.”
“I know; it matters not.” William meant it; as a bastard he had known all his life he could never inherit. Unlike some men he had been able to make his peace with that; letting go his dreams of what never could have been with scarcely a second thought.
“I cannot make you king of England, but I can put you in a position where you can become king of Wales; that will be your inheritance. You will forge that scattered country into a kingdom, civilise it and bring it to our fold. As king you will be independent of your brother, Henry; but I ask of you both that you remain close allies.”
William considered; he and Henry got on well enough, “I give you my word that I will start no rifts with my brother.”
“Good…good.” the king’s eyes began to droop, “I’ve started a war with Gwynedd, you will lead my armies, you will take all of Huw ap Rhys’ titles and lands in England’s name. Go, claim your kingdom’s start, and remember your promise once you have your crown.”
William waited until his father dozed off, and then crept to the door, slipping out silently.
