Two poodles sit at a banquet table, one whining pitifully, and looking like he's considering losing his lunch … while the other just regards his surroundings with stunned shock. "Sacre bleu! What a mad place this is!"

The clock strikes twelve, and the curtains over the entranceway to the dining room part, revealing a mare. She might be a sort of Unicorn, if one put much stock in the horn stuck to her forehead. She might be Ophelia, if one judged by her gown. If one disregarded those, then she would probably be an exceptionally homely (albeit cheerful-looking) white pony mare. "Oh good" she addresses the partly recovered poodle as she enters the room, "I see you're feeling more yourself."

Peuprofond gasps and pants, then looks at the faux-unicorn, his jaw dropping. "Just what are you – GRK!" He flails about, as a servant helpfully stuffs some squirmy dessert into his momentarily open mouth. He spits it out, and says some Gallisian curse words.

The mare steeples her fingers, looking at Peuprofond with concern. "The dessert isn't prepared to your liking, I fear? You needn't be afraid to speak up – I'm sure the kitchen has plenty of wrigglers on hand. They're a delicacy most places, but a staple here. One of the compensations for living in a cursed castle, don't you know. Shall we have some prepared in a different fashion for you.?"

Peuprofond struggles in his chair. "No!" he squeaks, then, in a slightly deeper tone, he corrects, "No, no, not at all. Ah … Excuse me, Mademoiselle … but … ah … " He blinks. "You … ah … " He at last simply points at the horn on the mare's head.

She flops her ears outward in a brief show of dismay, and reaches up to touch her horn, looking relieved as she does so. "I was afraid for a second it might have fallen off again. Parts do fall off on the odd days now and again, you know. They always come back the next day… " She trails off, looking bemusedly at the poodles' astonishment. "You have been told of the, erm… , liabilities that accompany the ownership of the castle, have you not?" She glances pointedly at the sheriff. "You've surely explained to them, My Lord Sheriff?"

The Sheriff says, "Ah … Yes, I did mention that … but I don't believe they were listening. Perhaps you could … elaborate, Lady Ophelia?"

Peuprofond's jaw gapes. "L-lady … Ophelia?"

Lacet gasps as well.

'Ophelia' seats herself at the table, and explains. "The Northern Shore is in many respects one of the most desirable demesnes in existence. I needn't tell you of the food – things that citizens of other lands might go their entire lives without once tasting are commonplace fare here, for rich and poor. There's excellent fishing, and for those who like to hunt, the forests hereabout are full of fierce and unusual creatures, many of which are simply not found in ordinary lands. As luck would have it, however, there is also a curse associated with the county… "

"A curse?" echoes Lacet. Peuprofond just looks pale about the ears.

"Whoever rules this land must, on alternate days, lose all of his or her natural good looks." She pauses, seeing the expressions on the poodles' faces, and hastens on. "It's only temporary, I assure you. On the morrow I'll be as I ever was. And, of course, once I've given up the county, I'll be back to normal, so it's not as though it does any lasting harm. Even when something falls off, it's back the next day good as new. Just a temporary annoyance."

"When something … falls … off?" echoes Lacet again, a look of horror on his face. "Oh, by the Marquis… "

Ophelia places a reassuring hand of Lacet's wrist. "It doesn't hurt or anything, I assure you. And it's generally something minor, like the horn, or an ear. Although there was that one day last spring when both legs dropped off." She laughs dismissively. "That was a bit of an inconvenience, let me tell you. I've never lost my head, although I sometimes worry about it." She chuckles again.

Peuprofond gulps.

Lacet looks at the clock. "Oh dear! Look at the time! How rude of us to stay here so late! You know, I think we … we really must be going! Yes!"

Peuprofond nods vigorously. "Yes, yes, I'm sure the General would simply love to hear all about this … this … curse of yours! Simply … fascinating!"

The mare cocks her head. "Must you leave so soon?"

Lacet stumbles up from his chair. "Oh, I am so sorry … but we simply must!"

Peuprofond nods even more vigorously, practically falling out of his chair in his haste to depart. "We have no choice! It is … a custom! Never to stay past midnight! Oh, the General would be so angry with our poor manners! Please promise not to tell! We must go now. Au revoir!"

The mare calls to a young serving-doe waiting by the sideboard, "Faline, quickly, fetch the gifts for our guests! Hurry now!" 'Ophelia' bustles around, helping the poodles prepare to leave, as the doe returns bearing three parcels wrapped in fine cloth. All smell strongly of fish. "Thank you ever so much for coming. Here's something for each of you, and one for the General as well. You will give him my best regards, will you not?"

Lacet doesn't even seem to notice the smell, so permeated his clothes are with the stench already, thanks to overenthusiastic servers. "Oh, Mademoiselle, I will! Adieu!" And then he breaks into a run down the corridor. Peuprofond yelps and chases after him.

The 'countess' stands waving an enthusiastic farewell. Her arm bumps her horn, which immediately pops off and falls to the floor with a clatter. "Oh bother… " she mutters to herself as she nudges it aside with her hoof, smiling broadly as she waves to the backs of the retreating poodles.