All the while, Tristran had thrown himself to the floor, out of harms way and crawls beneath the table, eventually reaching the fireplace.

The sound of violence and movement sends fear coursing through every part of him -- he isn't used to any of this, just being a simple farm-boy -- but there is a part of him that remains focused, clear-headed even.

"This had better ought to work," he mutters to himself, opening his left hand for a moment, revealing the lump of wax he'd been using to get here in the first place. It is soft and easily malleable from the heat of his palm.