May 2nd, 2027
Brenda lay prone, concealed within the embrace of the tall, swaying grasses that skirted the perimeter of her ancestral estate. The first blush of dawn painted the horizon in hues of pink and gold, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the grandiose Manor that had stood as a silent sentinel through generations. Through the lens of her rifle's scope, she scrutinized every inch of the property that sprawled before her, a blend of vigilance and a deep-seated resolve etched into her features. The Manor, with its towering spires and weathered stone, seemed to awaken with the day, its shadows retreating like specters at the touch of light. This moment of tranquility, however, belied the storm that Brenda knew was on the horizon. As she observed, the ghosts of childhood memories began to stir, each window and turret evoking vivid recollections of laughter and tears, of summer days spent beneath the sun and winter nights huddled by the hearth. These specters of the past, both joyous and sorrowful, intertwined with the present, lending a poignant weight to her vigil.
As the night had stretched on, restless and sleepless, Brenda's efforts had been rewarded with glimpses of six distinct shapes caught during their passage past windows with open curtains. The flicker of stationary candlelight hinted at the presence of several more occupants, shadows dancing behind the curtains that were mostly drawn, shrouding the interior in mystery. Now, with the arrival of dawn, there was a palpable increase in activity within her former home, as if the house itself had roused its inhabitants with the first light.
Brenda remained motionless, the dew from the grass seeping through her clothing, a cold, wet reminder of the night's watch. But discomfort was a small price to pay for the intelligence she gathered, her eyes never wavering from the scope, meticulously gauging the forces that had taken residence in her Manor. Each movement, each shadow was cataloged, a mental tally of what she was up against. The Manor, once a bastion of familial warmth and security, now seemed like a fortress occupied by unknown adversaries. Brenda knew that understanding their numbers, their movements, and possibly their intentions was crucial for what was to come. Her home had become a chessboard, and she, from her hidden vantage point among the tall grasses, was plotting her next move.
The wind's course altered, no longer cascading down from the Alpine peaks but sweeping through the valley with a warm embrace. The air shifted from the crisp chill of dawn to a warm, humid cloak, leaving Brenda feeling unexpectedly swathed in too many layers. Yet, she welcomed this surge of warmth as she had the earlier cold, embracing both as sentinels against the lure of sleep, ensuring her senses remained sharpened and focused.
Brenda's attention was suddenly drawn to movement near the castle's rear. The kitchen drapes, which had been still and undisturbed throughout the early morning, were abruptly flung apart, and the window cracked open to let in the changing air. Through the scope, Brenda's gaze fixed on a face that tugged at the strings of familiarity—a stocky woman in her fifties, whose presence had been a constant in Brenda's life, particularly in the mornings. This woman, their breakfast cook, had always been there, a fixture as reliable as the Manor itself.
Rein, Brenda thought, the name surfacing from the depths of her memory with a mix of fondness and sudden shame. She realized, with a pang of guilt, that she didn't know if Rein was her first or last name. As she watched the woman she had known for years move about in the kitchen, Brenda found herself grappling with a flurry of questions. Was Rein a captive to the circumstances, or had she willingly adapted to the new rulers of the Manor? Could she be considered a slave to the situation, or was she an opportunist, seizing whatever semblance of normalcy she could find in the upheaval? Had she simply continued on with the new management as a means of survival?
These questions lingered in Brenda's mind, adding layers of complexity to the situation. The sight of Rein, a familiar face in a sea of unknowns, served as a stark reminder of the personal connections and everyday lives that were intertwined with the fate of the Manor. It underscored the gravity of Brenda's mission, highlighting not just the physical reclaiming of her ancestral home, but also the moral and emotional implications of the choices she would soon have to make.
The sun had shifted! The warmth had lulled her into a brief nap; ninety minutes, she estimated. The house was now abuzz with activity. More drapes were drawn aside, and some windows opened to varying degrees. Brenda now tallied at least two dozen people. The smell of bacon stirred her stomach, prompting her to extract and chew on some beef jerky Mikken had given her.
As she resumed her observation, a figure emerged from the front door of the Manor, momentarily catching her off guard. Dressed in clothes strikingly familiar, the individual wore garments Brenda recognized as her own from her teenage years. Initially mistaking the figure for a child due to the distance, Brenda quickly corrected her assessment. The figure was not a child, but a woman, slightly younger than Brenda herself, albeit shorter and more slender. Observing her, Brenda was struck by the resemblance, as if she were looking at a version of herself, albeit altered, like the next smaller doll revealed upon opening a Matryoshka.
With precise movements, Brenda tracked the woman through her rifle's scope as she made her way across the estate's grounds, her path eventually leading her into the hedge maze. The sight of this woman, so unexpectedly similar to herself yet a stranger, dressed in the remnants of Brenda's past and living in her home, stirred a complex web of emotions within her. She felt usurped, as if a doppelgänger had taken her rightful place. An irrational urge to pull the trigger surfaced. It was a poignant reminder of the life that had once been hers, now seemingly inhabited by others. As the woman disappeared into the intricacies of the hedge maze, Brenda was left with a lingering sense of connection and dissonance, her mission shadowed by the personal echoes that the Manor continued to reveal.
The evident absence of visible security measures around the Manor deeply unsettled Brenda. This lack of overt protection could imply one of two things: either there were hidden snipers nestled within the turrets or camouflaged in the woods surrounding the estate, or the occupants had laid traps and made preparations they were confident in, ensuring their safety. Under normal circumstances, such an inadequately guarded stronghold would have been vulnerable, easily overrun and defeated by any determined force. Yet, the Manor stood unchallenged, a testament to the effectiveness of its unseen defenses.
Brenda's thorough scan of the area revealed no signs of traditional security measures. Not a single guard patrolled the grounds, and no one seemed to roam the yards, not even for the sake of appearances. The absence was eerily conspicuous, serving as a silent, psychological deterrent. It was as if the Manor itself whispered warnings of hidden dangers, too subtle for the untrained eye but unmistakably present to those who knew where to look. This quiet intimidation, the knowledge of unseen threats, weighed heavily on Brenda's mind as she continued her surveillance, a stark reminder of the complexity and potential peril of her mission.
The sounds of bustling activity from the courtyard reached Brenda's ears, a tantalizing hint of the life stirring within the Manor's walls. Drawing upon her intimate knowledge of the estate's layout, she knew that glimpses into the courtyard were afforded by only a few select vantage points from the tall grass. And she was not too far from one such rare spot. With determined patience, Brenda began the painstaking process of inching her way on her belly through the dense grass, moving up a slight incline toward the optimal observation point. The journey, taking nearly half an hour, was a testament to her resolve. If her year in the wildlands had taught her anything, it was patience.
As she maneuvered, Brenda couldn't help but notice the surprising amount of moisture her clothing had absorbed from the dew-laden grass. It felt as though her weight had nearly doubled, a silent testament to the dense morning air and her prolonged exposure to it. She surmised that if half of this added weight was due to her own body's moisture, that might well explain the absence of any need to relieve herself, despite the passage of time.
Finally, with her tripod and scope meticulously set up, Brenda was afforded a clear view of the courtyard. To her astonishment, the space had undergone a remarkable transformation. What once might have served as a mere crossing point or a space for leisure was now a burgeoning garden, currently in the throes of being plowed. She counted the figures busily tilling the soil — exactly 29 people were dedicated to this task. The courtyard, a central heart of the Manor, pulsed with new life, a vivid contrast to the silent, almost foreboding atmosphere that enveloped the rest of the estate. This unexpected scene, a blend of ordinary life amidst the undercurrents of tension, offered Brenda a new perspective on the Manor's current state.
"Sophice! You are late for work," a booming deep voice echoed out a window, its resonance amplifying as it reverberated off the mountain walls. The sudden proclamation not only shattered the relative peace of the morning but also startled a flock of nightingales nestled nearby. In an instant, the air was filled with the fluttering of wings and the birds' melodious calls, as they took to the sky in a harmonious uproar. This unexpected symphony of nature, triggered by the commanding shout, momentarily bridged the gap between the tranquil exterior and the bustling activity within the Manor's grounds. Brenda, from her concealed vantage point, observed the scene unfold, the dynamics of life within those ancient walls momentarily laid bare by the interaction of human voice and nature's response.
As the echoes of the booming voice tapered off, replaced by the diminishing trills of the nightingales, Brenda's focus narrowed on the source of the command. She meticulously took in the details of the man's face and build, mentally tagging him as "mark one." He was the first individual she had observed displaying any semblance of authority within the Manor's current hierarchy. The nature of his relationship with Sophice was ambiguous—lover, husband, father, or perhaps a more professional role such as the garden manager or, more significantly, the new Lord of the Manor. For the moment, Brenda's attention was riveted on him.
He stood tall, exuding strength, his presence commanding even from a distance. There was something about him—his build, his demeanor—that unnervingly reminded Brenda of Hardy. Determining his age was challenging; his face, largely obscured by a thick, deep brown beard, well-kept but expansive, masked his years, placing him anywhere within the broad spectrum of 25 to 40 years old. This man, now designated for further observation, emerged as a potentially crucial piece in the puzzle Brenda was diligently piecing together. His role and influence within the Manor's walls remained an enigma, igniting her strategic interest and deepening the mystery of the current dynamics at play.
The girl—or 'woman,' Brenda corrected herself—soon emerged from the labyrinth of the hedge maze and made her way swiftly towards the man's window. From her vantage point, Brenda could not discern the specifics of their conversation, but it was evident they shared a brief, yet seemingly intimate exchange that included a moment of hand-holding. Then, with a swift motion that spoke of routine and familiarity, the man handed her a stone pulling rake through the window. Without hesitation, the woman, now confirmed in Brenda's mind as Sophice, took the tool and hurried off toward the courtyard.
This brief interaction, though it provided little in the way of substantive intelligence, at least confirmed the identity of the woman as Sophice. Beyond that, the nature of their relationship and their roles within the Manor's current hierarchy remained as opaque as ever. The exchange, marked by a mundane passing of gardening equipment, was nonetheless a piece of the puzzle, hinting at the daily rhythms and personal dynamics at play within the walls of Brenda's ancestral home.
Brenda observed the exchange, noting the implications it held beyond the simple transfer of a gardening tool. The interaction between the man and Sophice suggested an established routine, a schedule they adhered to, and at the very least, a minimal form of hierarchy within the Manor's current occupants. This observation lent credence to one of Brenda's potential strategies—proposing a peaceful coexistence and cooperation. The presence of order and structure among the Manor's inhabitants hinted at the possibility of negotiation, a chance to reach an accord without resorting to outright conflict.
However, as she contemplated initiating contact, Brenda was acutely aware of her current state. After hours spent concealed in the grass, observing through her scope, and the physical toll of her vigil, she was not in the most presentable condition for diplomatic overtures. The desire for a chance to attend to her hygiene before any potential meeting crossed her mind. Presenting herself in a manner that commanded respect and communicated her sincerity was important, and she wished for the opportunity to make such preparations. This added a layer of complexity to her planning, as she considered how best to approach the Manor's occupants with her proposition for peace.
"Wenn Wünsche Pferde wären," she muttered under her breath, as she prepared to shift from observer to actor in this unfolding drama. With a practiced motion, Brenda slung her rifle over her shoulder, ensuring it was visible yet positioned in a manner that suggested no immediate threat. Standing up from her concealed spot among the tall grass, she felt the full weight of her soaked clothing, now heavy and clinging to her skin. The extra muscle she had built up during her arduous journey through the Alps seemed to be the only thing giving her the strength to move; without it, she doubted she could bear the weight of her waterlogged attire.
Choosing her path with deliberate care, Brenda aimed to intersect the walkway leading to the front steps of the Manor. Each step was taken slowly, purposefully, as she made her way towards the heart of the estate. Her approach was calculated to be non-threatening, a visible demonstration of her willingness to engage in dialogue. This was a pivotal moment, bridging the gap between the solitary vigil of the night and the potential for a new dawn of understanding—or confrontation—with the inhabitants of her ancestral home.
As Brenda reached the cobblestone pathway, her body instinctively tensed, bracing for the possibility of a sniper's bullet. These stones, centuries old and extracted from the very soil upon which her home was built, now served as a silent testament to the history and resilience of Tal der Ruhe. With every step she took on the ancient pathway, she felt a deep connection to the land, a reminder of her roots and the legacy she was fighting to reclaim.
She advanced towards the great stone archway, the emblematic heart of Tal der Ruhe, with a mixture of caution and resolve. This archway had stood as a witness to the ebbs and flows of history, enduring through times of peace and upheaval. Brenda's approach, under the weight of her heavy, soaked clothing and the burden of her mission, was a convergence of past and present, a singular moment where the future of her Manor and its lands hung in the balance.
Her readiness for the sharp report of a sniper’s rifle was a stark reminder of the stakes at play. Yet, her deliberate, purposeful steps towards the archway were an assertion of her right, her determination to face whatever awaited her within the heart of her ancestral home.
As Brenda made her way along the pathway, she passed the first of four large stones painted in distinct colors: green, yellow, orange, and red. These stones, traditionally serving as a warning to various peddlers, marked every hundred meters from the steps leading to the Manor, a countdown to the heart of Tal der Ruhe. In times past, these colors signified the distance at which different actions would be taken to protect the estate, a coded message understood by those who frequented the area.
Brenda couldn't help but ponder if these colored stones held a more ominous significance under the Manor's current occupants. During her youth, the approach to the Manor was safeguarded not just by visual warnings but by the release of hounds, a tangible deterrent against unwelcome visitors. She wondered if the new inhabitants had adopted similar practices or if the painted stones now signaled threats of a different nature.
The presence of these markers, once integral to the estate's unique charm and security protocol, now raised questions about the intersection of tradition and adaptation. Were these stones still intended as benign warnings, or had they been repurposed to convey more sinister messages? It was possible they remained as forgotten relics of a bygone era. Yet, the conspicuous absence of visible security measures, such as guards or patrols, led Brenda to ponder the nature of unseen defenses that might be lying in wait for her or anyone bold enough to approach Tal der Ruhe. With every step forward, she maintained a careful balance between caution and curiosity, drawing ever closer to revealing the reality of the Manor under its new stewardship.
Just as Brenda advanced past the yellow rock, a now familiar voice pierced the air, its volume robust enough to traverse the two hundred meters and the thick, closed door separating them as if he were standing right beside her. "Stop. Listen and obey all orders exactly as if your life depended on it." The command, authoritative and unwavering, halted her in her tracks, a stark reminder of the precarious situation she was navigating. The voice, undoubtedly belonging to the man she had marked earlier, carried a gravity that underscored the seriousness of her approach. This directive, clear and commanding, left no room for ambiguity.
Despite the stark command, Brenda found a sliver of reassurance in the situation. The fact that they had chosen to engage rather than respond with immediate hostility was, in its own way, the best possible outcome under the circumstances. This indicated that the Manor's current occupants were neither overly anxious individuals acting without forethought nor trigger-happy aggressors prone to violence without inquiry. Instead, they appeared to be rational, possessing a plan and, crucially, a willingness to communicate. Brenda clung to the hope that this openness to dialogue would extend beyond mere commands, offering a genuine opportunity for negotiation or, at the very least, a peaceful resolution. This calculated approach suggested that there might still be a chance to navigate the complexities of the situation without resorting to violence, a prospect that Brenda was more than ready to explore.
"Don't try to talk back or ask questions. We can't hear you yet. Just follow orders exactly. Take your gun by the strap with one hand and place it on the ground. If you have any other weapons on you, place them on the ground with one hand. When you have finished, raise your left hand in the air. If you attempt to retain a weapon, it won't end well."
The instructions were delivered with clinical precision, leaving no room for interpretation. The voice, disembodied and projecting from a distance, carried an unmistakable authority. Brenda understood the gravity of the situation; compliance was not merely advised but required. With deliberate movements, fully aware of the watchful eyes she presumed were trained on her every action, she followed the directives. She carefully placed her rifle on the ground by the strap, then, with a heavier heart, she unholstered Adlerkralle, her constant companion this last year. Laying the large knife gently beside the rifle, releasing it felt soul-draining. Now, despite the layers of clothing, she felt exposed and vulnerable.
Once she had divested herself of all weapons, Brenda slowly raised her left hand into the air, a silent testament to her compliance. The act of raising her hand, a universally recognized gesture of surrender and readiness to communicate, was her bridge to the next phase of this encounter. Brenda stood still, her posture a mix of readiness and caution, awaiting the next set of instructions, hopeful that her actions had conveyed her willingness to engage peacefully.
"Wilhelm is going to come out and inspect you now. I regret that he will have to be thorough and invasive. He is old, frail, and easily broken; do not resist in any way—it will not end well."
This new instruction, delivered with the same authoritative tone, added an unexpected layer to the unfolding scenario. The mention of Wilhelm, described as old and frail, introduced a complex dynamic to the encounter. Brenda processed this information, the warning against resistance underscoring the seriousness with which her captors—or perhaps hosts—were taking the situation. Despite the tension, there was a hint of caution in the voice, a reminder of the fragility on both sides of this encounter. Brenda readied herself for this next phase, her mind racing to anticipate and understand the roles of the individuals within the Manor and how they might influence her own fate.
"It will take him a little while to get to you. I suggest you take that time to disrobe. Anything in your pockets or on your person that you don't want broken, I suggest you place on the ground. Continue to move slowly and where possible, use one hand. Do not make us nervous."
The directive to disrobe, framed as a suggestion for her own benefit, escalated the situation's intensity, infusing it with a vulnerability that Brenda had not anticipated facing in this manner. Each word was calculated to maintain control, emphasizing the precarious balance between her compliance and their apprehension. The request to remove her clothing, ostensibly to prevent damage during the inspection, stripped away another layer of her defenses, both physical and psychological. Left in a state of heightened exposure, Brenda carefully weighed her next actions, understanding the critical importance of her movements and the unspoken implications of her compliance. This moment was a test, not just of her will but of the intentions and character of those who now held sway over her circumstances.
As Wilhelm approached, Brenda recognized him, a connection from her past that she hadn't anticipated encountering here. The intertwined lives of the estate's servants, a legacy of loyalty and service that spanned generations, suddenly became a beacon of hope. Wilhelm, a relic of the old guard, symbolized a continuity that Brenda found comforting in the midst of uncertainty. The fact that the current occupants valued and made accommodations for an elderly servant like Wilhelm suggested a depth of character and a respect for tradition that Brenda hadn't expected. This revelation subtly shifted her perceptions of the situation, hinting at a potential ally in her quest to understand and navigate the complexities of her ancestral home under its new stewardship.
As she continued to disrobe, taking care to move slowly and deliberately, Brenda focused on recalling details about Wilhelm. His cheerful disposition, sharp mind, and the limp that marked his movements were all traits that painted a picture of a man who had been a constant, albeit in the background, during her younger years. Now, as he finally recognized her, his exclamation, "My lady!" cut through the tension, albeit briefly.
"Not too loudly," Brenda cautioned, her mind racing to piece together her next moves. "I'm still not certain exactly how I'm going to play this. But it's good to see you, Wilhelm."
His next words, however, introduced a twist that Brenda hadn't anticipated. "Milady, you don't understand, that's Otto," he said, nodding towards the door. "Otto Sigmund von Löwenstein."
The network of the wealthy, both current and former, including the once-royal families like the Myers' and the Löwensteins, humorously referred to themselves as the Königliche Fata Morgana. This self-styled nobility, a patchwork of families often intertwined through marriage and history, was known for their tradition of vacationing at each other's estates, a way to relive and showcase their former splendor. It was a practice steeped in nostalgia, where opulent gatherings were staged amidst the echoes of their ancestral grandeur. Otto's family estate, perched on the cliffs above Bad Tölz, had been the venue, marking their clumsy teenaged fumbling introduction to adulthood.
The realization that Otto, each other's first, might be in charge or wield considerable influence within the Manor shifted Brenda's perspective. It imbued her with a slight sense of relief, softening the edges of her apprehension. However, this momentary easing of her tension allowed the accumulated strain of the past day and a half—the lack of sleep, limited sustenance from jerky and nuts, dehydration, and the exhaustive sweating—to suddenly overwhelm her. As if her body had been waiting for just this moment of psychological respite to claim its due, Brenda's strength ebbed away. She fainted, her consciousness slipping away as she collapsed onto her pile of clothing, a stark reminder of the physical toll her mission had exacted on her.