Selfaril shook his head in remorse over the experience he had been denied. Oh well, he thought, I still have my wife…

On the Back Roads Outside of Mulmaster:

As the clouds began to move in on them, and the sun inched closer to the horizon, Rassendyll and Passepout pressed onward.

The iron-masked escapee realized that he and his overweight traveling companion would have to avoid any of the numerous Mulmaster outposts, or he would soon find himself back in the dungeons of Southroad Keep. The combination of the sand, salt, and seaweed that had taken to roost in the collarlike ring of the mask's neck piece was rubbing raw his skin adjacent to it, causing an extremely uncomfortable mixed sensation of burning and itching. As he reached the rise of the next hill, having first scanned the area to assure it was deserted, he paused once again to rub at the chafed area.

"Is your neck bothering you?" the out-of-breath thespian asked, as he too reached the rise, adding tentatively, "Why don't you just take the helmet off? I'm sure you can't be that ugly. If you don't want to be recognized, well, don't worry about me. A famous actor such as myself knows all about traveling incognito to avoid overzealous fans. I'll keep your secret, whatever it is."

Rassendyll looked at the amusing fellow, and said, "You're a famous actor?"

"That's right," Passepout replied, with an out-of-place flourish and semi-bow. "Passepout, only son of the legendary thespians Idle and Catinflas, at your service."

"Never heard of you," Rassendyll replied, still distracted as he rubbed the raw spot in search of relief.

"You know," the thespian ventured, "if we were back in Cormyr, I'd know the perfect thing to rid you of that dry, flaking, skin problem you have. It's heartbreaking watching you suffer. A friend of mine by the name of Seau Raisis had that problem."

"What did he use?"

"Well," Passepout answered, scratching his head as if to stimulate a memory, "as I recall there was a cleric, named Oleigh if I remember correctly, who would treat Seau's problem by rubbing it with oil that he made specially for such ailments."

"Did it work?"

"I think so," Passepout replied, "but I can't really be sure. After the oil of Oleigh was applied he never complained about the problem again, but…"

"So it must have worked."

"Not necessarily; that is, I mean to say the problem was taken care of, but it might not have been cured by the oil."

"What then? I mean, if the problem with his neck abrasion went away and he never complained about it again, why do you doubt the effectiveness of the cleric's treatment?"

"He was beheaded."

"The cleric?"

"No," Passepout explained. "Seau. At least his neck rash problem was taken care of."

Rassendyll looked at the pudgy thespian and laughed once again.

Passepout smiled back, almost at ease in the company of the masked stranger.

"Well I for one would rather avoid such treatments and cure-alls as the one that worked on your friend Seau."

"Indeed," the pudgy thespian agreed. "By the way, what is your name, or at least what should I call you?"

Rassendyll thought for a moment, glad that the mask obscured the thespian from seeing the wary change of expression on his face. He himself was no actor, and he was sure that his face would have conveyed the indecisiveness he felt about whether he could trust this funny fellow or not.

"You can call me Rupert," Rassendyll answered, "Rupert of Zenda."

"Well met, Rupert of Zenda," Passepout returned. "Can't say I recognize the name."

"Hope not," the masked escapee replied inadvertently.

"What was that?" Passepout inquired. "That coal bucket you're wearing gives you a bad case of the mumbles, if you know what I mean. By the way, why don't you take it off?"

"I wish I could," Rassendyll retorted, "but I'm afraid that it's stuck."

"Too bad," the thespian replied.

Rassendyll scanned the area once again. He didn't like the looks of the storm clouds that seemed to be rapidly bearing down on them. We should be on our way and looking for shelter, he thought.

Passepout in the meantime had concentrated his visual faculties on the ground around where they sat. Seeing exactly what he was looking for, he struggled to his feet and walked back over the ridge, picking up a sturdy branch. Rassendyll noticed his efforts once he returned. Good thinking, the masked escapee thought, he found a walking stick.

Rassendyll was about to stand up when he felt Passepout trying to wedge one of the ends of the branch under the metal collar.

"Hey! Cut that out!" Rassendyll exclaimed, not wishing to add the discomfort of splinters to his long list of woes.

"Just hold still," Passepout assured, continuing to try and wedge the branch between the masked man's collar and his clavicle. "Once I have it wedged in place, I'm going to put my weight on the other end of the stick, using your shoulder as a fulcrum. It should force it off in no time."

"Which? The mask or my head?"

"The mask, of course. Now just sit still."

Rassendyll quickly wiggled out from under the awkward hands of the pudgy thespian, and got to his feet.

Passepout appeared bewildered at his sudden retreat. "What's the matter?" the thespian implored. "I just wanted to help."

Rassendyll shook his head, and said, "Thanks anyway, but it wouldn't have worked."

"How can you be sure?" Passepout asked.

"It's been magically bound to my skull. I fear it won't come off without separating my head from my shoulders as well."

"I'm sorry," Passepout apologized. "I didn't know."

"No reason you should have."

"I bet you got on the wrong side of a powerful wizard of some sort."

In return Rassendyll murmured something indecipherable, as he began to remove splinters from his shoulders.

"Me too," Passepout replied as if he understood what the masked man had said. "I've run afoul of a few myself. Now, of course, the likes of Elminster and Khelben are indebted to me, but even so, you can't trust a wizard."

"Oh, no?" Rassendyll responded, cocking his head at an awkward angle so that he could look the thespian straight in the eye.

Passepout paled.

"You're not one of them are you?" he asked in a panic.

Rassendyll thought for a split second about his current condition, and laughed. "I guess not," he replied with a chuckle. "At least not for the time being." He then quickly added, with a mischievous, almost conspiratorial tone, "I used to be, though."

Passepout joined in his chuckle, and said, "That's all right. I used to be a thief."

Thunder began to rumble in the distance.

"Then let us steal away," Rassendyll replied, "and find shelter."

"Good idea, Rupert," Passepout concurred, then asked, "I can call you Rupert, can't I?"

"But of course," Rassendyll answered after a moment's hesitation. He then thought, I'll have to remember that that's my new name.

The thunder rumbled again, as the two continued their trek in search of shelter.

In the Tharchioness's Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The Tharchioness was primping for dinner when her half sister Mischa Tam entered.

The First Princess finished buffing her scalp, and began to touch up the exotic eye liner that framed the seductive windows of her soul.

"Dear sister," Mischa said tentatively, hoping that the First Princess was not in one of her many moods that would have made this sudden, unannounced intrusion a gross act of insubordination.

"What is it, Mischa?" the First Princess asked impatiently, yet not necessarily hostilely.