Of Gods and Kings: A Medieval Character RP [IC/OPEN/REBOOT]

[Ghondra]

OF GODS AND KINGS
A Medieval Character RP
(THEME)

Chapter I - Introductions

It is a time of strife in North Brettonia, once the heart of a great empire that spanned the known world, now a shadow of its former shell, a divided realm ruled by the 13 Dukes of Ghondra, but a pair of new enemies approaches, one from the green hills and steep highlands of the south and one from the bosom of society, a new religion worshipping one god, and his son a Warrior-Priest known as Paul the Holy, threatening to burn the ‘relics’ of the Trinity to ashes, at the son of god’s heel is tens of thousands of devout followers, driven to convert the heathens of Brettonia and their false lords by the sword and the cross.

You are only one man, whether you are a lord, a warrior or even a simple farmer or craftsman you can make a change in the world, what will it be good sir? Will you choose to defend the home of civilization or will you help destroy it? Will you help the Warriors of Christ in their holy crusade against the heathens or will you defend the ancient religion of all Brettonia?

Choose wisely, and with luck, your name will be known to every child, spoken with reverence of the highest order… or make the hearts of men tremble in fear.

---

Link to the OOC

Bismarck City, Kingdom of Victoria

Arthur sat on the Solar of the Royal Keep, a great castle that served as the residence of the Cunninghams in Bismarck for many centuries. Despite his home (and seat of power) being in Castingham, he always loved to visit the Royal Keep, in the summer the sun would often tint the sea a bloody red. He would just seat in his father, now his Solar, admiring the sun set. Watching the little dots that made up the population of the grand metropolis, observing the ships from all corners of the known world dock and deliver its wares, from ships delivering great Ironwood from distant Evora or the spices of Eastern Kaea, to the exotic food and incense of Western Kaea, to the spices from even more distant Eastern Kaea, doing their business. It made him smile, it also made him feel tiny, oh so very tiny.

He walked away from the Solar, grabbing a piece of summer fruit, a gift from some Southern lord who's name escaped him, taking a bite as he sat next to his sister and mother, smiling at them. His sister, who's blonde locks only serve to accentuate her striking blue eyes took notice of this, and smirked. "You look positively ecstatic my dear brother, are you expecting something... or someone?" She teased, her twin chuckled, "Today I am expecting lords from all over the realm, today is the day the Council of Four shall be held, after 400 years a King of Ghondra shall be selected, and I fully intend for that king to be me"

Her sister only rolled her eyes, she heard the story a thousand times before, how he was going to become the next King of Ghondra, and pass it down to his sons and grandsons for all time. A king to unite all of North Brettonia, her brother's childhood (and apparently adulthood) belief that he was going to be the next king only amused her. Their mother however, an elegant and beautiful matriarch frowned, her son's ambitions sometimes scared her. He was always scared for her children, but her son, the King of Victoria and Warden of the North just would not let go of his ambitions. She sometimes cursed her beloved husband telling Arthur stories about his Ancestor. Jon "Greatsword" Cunningham, the Warlord who became King and drove an invading horde of Barbarians from across the sea back, ever since then her son always believed, fervently that he would become the next King.

He only hope his ambitions wouldn't get him in trouble, or worse: Killed.

Her son finished a grand tirade about how he would prove to his Twin sister that he would become King, before he was called by his councillors to welcome the Kings of the West, the East and the South. Lords from across Ghondra would converge here, in the Council of Four, to decide the next King of Ghondra.

And King Arthur of the North, Son of King Ironsides begins to create a brilliant plan, to fulfill his dream of becoming the next Cunninghamian King.

If only he knew the path that awaits him.

[Valloria]

Goring Street, Downtown Bismarck City

King Allister sat in the Royal Wharlish Embassy in Bismarck City. King Arthur had declined his request to be set up in the Royal Keep. This embarrassment, among many other slights, had made Allister grow to hate Arthur over the years. But the animosity between them excited him. He loved a challenge. And a dish of politics seasoned with his enemy's ambitions and possibilities of revenge was a mighty challenge indeed. Allister had never been the best-looking man. He was not fat, but rather quite thin. He had never excelled in physical form, although his swordsmanship was nearly unrivalled. But swordsmanship was not his greatest talent. Far from it, in fact.

Ever since Allister was a boy, he had been interested in politics. He was extraordinarily intelligent and extremely manipulative. But his prospects for inheritance were slim. His father was the fifth son of the King. And he was the fifth son of his father. There are no titles for the fifth son of a fifth son. But a tragedy at Elmont resulted in the deaths of every member of the Royal Family save for his uncle Crown Prince Allister's only child: Jeanine. Arranging for Jeanine's death was simple enough, and three short months later, he assumed the throne. His affable demeanor was a mask of his true person: a cunning, manipulative, and ruthless figure who would stop at nothing to gain more power.

After Allister was crowned, the ducal house of Valliç, the rulers of Valland, had rebelled against Allister when he was crowned King, calling him illegitimate. The Valliç heir had married Jeanine and had been legitimized as an heir, but the Throne Council declared for Allister instead. They wanted the Throne of Wharland for themselves. Allister, fraught with rebels, arranged a marriage with Hastiakan heiress Brunhilda. Once he had secured Hastiaka's support in the war, Valland was easily crushed. House Valliç was exiled with all of their soldiers and bannermen, never to return.¹ This was the first show of Allister's power. And it would be far from the last.

King Allister did many things to further his power. He arranged marriages between several of the ducal houses of Wharland, resulting in a strengthened realm. In coordination with Hastiaka, he expanded Wharland's borders to include swathes of previously Gaellic Barbarian territory. He was celebrated in his homeland for his achievements. Using his business acumen, he had monopolized the agricultural trade of the realm, making House Wharlaey the wealthiest in Ghondra. Under his leadership, Wharland had gone from a backwards breadbasket to the leading economic powerhouse. During his 30 years of rule, he has increased the population of Wharland from 890,000 to 1,380,000.

But that is all history. Now, in order to better combat the growing Barbarian threat, a new Emperor of Ghondra would be declared. He knew that King Arthur wanted the position badly. But he also knew that Arthur would never become the Emperor. For the past thirty years, Wharland and Victoria were clearly the most powerful of the Ghondran Kingdoms. They had the highest living standards and most of the economic output. They were also the least in danger of Barbarian attacks. So it was relatively easy to threaten the other Kingdoms into submission. The South couldn't survive without iron from Wharland, so it was easy enough to threaten them into submission. And as for the West, a few Wharlish Hulks had been intimidating enough.

But Allister was still not sure. He knew that Wharland couldn't survive a war with both the South and the West. So their loyalties were questionable in truth. But he knew that they knew that he would make the better Emperor. And so, with a forced smile, he exited the Royal Wharlish Embassy and entered a carriage. Borne by a litter, he was carried through the narrow streets of Bismarck City towards the castle at the center of it all.

---

The Wharlfort, Wharlton, Duchy of the Crownland, Wharland

"...And I do hereby name you Queen Brunhilda Waldheim of the ennobled House Wharlaey, Empress of Wharland and Countess of Wharlton, Lady Wife. Your Majesty King Allister, you may now kiss the bride." Those were the words that united Brunhilda and Allister all those years ago. A rush job, their marriage. It was the only way that Allister could defeat Valland and Atanopolia. But their marriage had been a happy one. Two of their three boys had survived into adulthood. One was a brilliant statesman and the other a powerful warrior. The Queen lived a nice, happy life in the Wharlfort. She entertained the requests of the citizenry in her husband's name, and was renowned for her political tact.

But there was trouble brewing in the Kingdom. Several Wharlords² in the south of Halia had been causing trouble with their liege lords. Something about the brutal rape and murder of the youngest daughter of Wharlord Egbeert of Hasselhaven by the heir to House Cragglepusz, the ducal house of Halia. A large ransom would have to be paid by Lord Gorman Cragglepusz to Wharlord Egbeert, but nothing that Gorman couldn't handle. Just then, her youngest son, Prince Grant, a boy of fifteen, burst into the library, where she was sitting. She stood, irritated that his entrance made so much noise. She was preparing to scold him about his lack of respect for tradition.

But he interrupted her before she could even speak, "MOTHER! Wharlord Egbeert just challenged Lord Gorman's son to a duel!" She dropped the letter she was working on (in her husband's name) and called a courtier to her aid. She put on a cloak of furs over her dress and hurried her way through the halls of the great keep of the Wharlfort. She stepped out of her home of thirty years into the brisk December air of a palace courtyard to see the fifty-year-old Egbeert draw a massive sword against Gorman's son, Boris. Her jaw hit the floor as she saw how truly huge Gorman's heir was. He had to be at least seven and a half feet tall, and at least 25 stone. His sword dwarfed even Egbeert's, a tall man himself.

She attempted to rush forward and stop their fighting, but it was in vain: several courtiers pulled her back as Egbeert made the first swing. Their swords connected and Boris repelled his attack. Blow after blow was exchanged between them as they dueled for their lives. But Boris had a clear advantage. Being twice the size of the thin Egbeert, he was quickly tiring the aged man. And then it dawned on her. This was all part of Egbeert's plan. His death at the hands of Boris would be the catalyst that started a civil war in Halia. This would ruin the economy of Wharland, as Halia is the breadbasket of the breadbasket. Just then, the final blow of the fight was struck.

Boris kicked Egbeert in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He picked the old man up by the collar and threw him into an anvil. He then smashed his head into it, breaking a few teeth and shattering his jaw. A loose smile and dancing eyes crossed Egbeert's face as Boris picked up his sword and split Egbeert in two. The crowd looked on in horror. Brunhilda hurried inside and sat down at her desk in the library. She picked up her quill and penned a letter to her husband in Bismarck City: An urgent situation has arisen in Halia. You must return immediately to Wharlton. War is coming to Wharland, and your arrival here is not soon enough.

---

¹((OOC: House Valliç are the founders of Valloria in South Atalanta.))
²((OOC: King > Prince > Lord > Wharlord. i.e. King Allister Hubert IV of the royal House Wharlaey, Emperor of Wharland, Count of Wharlton, and Lord Protector of the Wharlfort; Crown Prince Allister Hubert V of the royal House Wharlaey, Duke of the Crownland, Count of Elmont, and Lord Protector of Elcourt; Lord Henrick Barings of the ducal House Waldheim, Duke of Hastiaka, Count of Thubel, and Lord Protector of Grunfels Castle; Wharlord Boopiye Sawyer of the ennobled House Globion, Count of Ethelbern and Lord Protector of Czoenstrougp.))

[Bracion]

Waltenberg, North Brettonia

When the the sun started rising over the farms of Waltenberg, farmer Humbert Ferdinand was rising from his bed. Well rested, he went into the kitchen about 10 meters away. As he turned into the kitchen, Humbert realized something. There was a scene. A horrific scene. Blood splattered all over his walls and he was disgusted by the smell and he slowly realized something. Something ... he would never expect. He identified the girl as no else than the youngest daughter of Wharlord Egbeert of Hasselhaven, Olivia Egbeert.

Next thing you knew, Humbert was running out of his farm and was heading towards the local town he told me. Oh ... did I forget to tell you my name? Alright, I will tell you. My name is Klaas Alex and that was Ferdiand's story. I will be off to find him and when I do, he will regret murdering Olivia despite he told me that he woke up to that. I told you what he said, but I am now bent on finding him and at this moment, he might be well beyond Waltenberg! Heaven knows where he has gone now!

[Das Germane imperie]

Western Victoria

They had marched for weeks. His return to Victoria would be magnificent, letting the world know that the Knightly order of the Son's swords was alive. He would reach Bismarck city in a few days. He was quite surprised that no army or local lord had yet met them, as at least one of all the staring peasants in the many villages they had marched past should have reported in a large army marching through, with the banners of the trinity, the father, the son and the mother. Ludwig rode with pride, he represented something holy and good, as he and his faithful order protected the one and true faith. The weather had been in his favour, the father had granted them sun on these fertile lands he once had lived on. They traveled with great riches, loot that now belonged to the men of god. He hoped to convince the King of Victoria to lease him land for the order, as he wanted to have a base of operations to fight heathens and heretics around Brettonia. He saw a small village along the road and decided to stop there.

"Lord hospitaller!" He shouted for his second in command to ride to him. He stopped his horse, and he could here the sound of thousands of soldiers instantly halting, the sound of spears that hit the ground and chainmail rattled.

"Yes, Grand Master von Hohenkranz, what do you want me to do?" The young man was in his late 20s, but he had fought with him for years.

"I will visit the village. Let the forces drink in the brook over there" He pointed on a small stream. "I shall only take a few order knights. We'll meet again soon."

The army turned and marched down to the stream. It was a great reward to get some water after marching for hours, the soldiers in heavy armour were sweating like pregnant nuns. He and a dozen of knights rode down to the village, were two villagers stood and looked down on the stream, with worried faces.

"Well met, oh farmers of the northern realm." He stood down from his horse and took of his helmet, revealing the obvious face of a noble.

"Greetings m'lord!" Both of the villagers answered quickly, and bowed.

"Stand up friends, stand up. I am not a lord, for I am a man of the church."

"A man of the church?" Both of them looked at each other, confused. "Not to be unpleasant sir but you travel with an army. No man of the church we know has warriors in their ranks? May I ask, who are you?"

"I am Grand Master Ludwig von Hohenkranz, of the knightly order of the son's swords. We have returned after 19 years from our military campaigns in the west, cleansing the lands there from filthy heathens."

"Noble hero, bless you!" The peasant yelled. "Please, is there anything we can help you with? Can we give you something, we have grain?"

"Oh please, we can't accept a gift from you. But I want to ask something, who is king in Victoria? He asked, a bit embarrassed, though, it was only in his eyes that his cold but noble expression changed.

"His majesty Arthur Cunningham is King now" The peasant answered proudly.

"Well, thank you, friend. Here, take this simple gift from us. And remember, that the son's swords protects this realm now." He handed a coin purse and sat on his horse again, took his helmet on and rode away, back to his army. The peasant watched as the holy warriors rode away, he just stood there and saw as the army started to march a few minutes later.

"Gerold!" He screamed to his brother. "Take the stallion and ride so fast you can to Bismarck city. Tell them that the knightly order of the son's swords has returned from the west, and they will reach the city in some days. If you go fast, you'll be there tomorrow."

At the same time, Ludwig saw a man on a horse riding away from the village, to Bismarck city. He smiled.

[Kheeriin]

Goring Street Inn, Bismark City

The dimly lit tavern was a foreign world for Ucheknik. Pustosh never had the luxuries of alcohol, meat or even musical instruments. Even though he's been on Bretton's mainland for about three weeks, the Goring Street Tavern always surprises him with odd culture. He learned how many royals were coming to Bismarck City for some celebration; a crowning of a new royal. This concerned Ucheknik, as "crowning" was a term for a Pustosh surgical procedure and the pomp and circumstance made him believe battlefield surgery is a Bretton right of passage.

From his booth, the refugee saw a barmaid handing out free drinks in honor of the crowning of the Royal Arthur being "crowned". Still baffled by this cultural trait, he thought it would be a decent excuse to get a drink.

"Alcohol lady; give me two alcohol cup, if may you," Ucheknik commanded as she walked by. His lack of the common tongue did turn some heads, and he did hear some accusations that he was a "Christian" or a "Pirate". Like most Bretton words, he couldn't tell if they were insults or comedic remarks.

She spitted back, "Excuse me?"

"Alcohol, drink? I have thirst, so can bring you it, if may you."

"How drunk are you?" she interrogated the foreigner.

"What is drunk?" he questioned back.

"I've had enough of you!" she shouted, causing some of the customers to focus less on their drinks and more on the possible fight brewing in the back. Her hand pointed to the door, a universal symbol of leaving. Ucheknik understood this more than words, so he picked up his mace and shield and left the tavern. As he left, he checked his pouch of goods to see what he had left; only a pinch of cheap, assorted gems and a half-dozen coins. If he kept spending as much as he had been for the last few weeks, be would be broke by tomorrow. Ucheknik had an idea; it may not be a good idea, but at least it was an idea.

Once outside, he stood on a crate near the Goring Street Inn much like a Christian preacher would to a crowd of Trinity followers. He cleared his throat with a loud cough and began to advertise his services.

"If you be royal and need strong Thrall-Knight to lead small army, I can be very strong Thrall-Knight! Thrall Knight is me and strong I be! I more strong than you, if may you! I am great Thrall-Knight" Ucheknik bellowed, rolling every "R" he said and waving his mace like a lunatic. The citizens gave him odd looks, but this was a part of the idea. If the people started to notice him, the lords and ladies would, too. He would continue until night fell or a royal hired him. This might be crazy, or it may just grant me survival in this new world, he thought to himself, still shouting about being a "Thrall-Knight".

[Valloria]

Goring Street Inn, Bismark City

The dimly lit tavern was a foreign world for Ucheknik. Pustosh never had the luxuries of alcohol, meat or even musical instruments. Even though he's been on Bretton's mainland for about three weeks, the Goring Street Tavern always surprises him with odd culture. He learned how many royals were coming to Bismarck City for some celebration; a crowning of a new royal. This concerned Ucheknik, as "crowning" was a term for a Pustosh surgical procedure and the pomp and circumstance made him believe battlefield surgery is a Bretton right of passage.

From his booth, the refugee saw a barmaid handing out free drinks in honor of the crowning of the Royal Arthur being "crowned". Still baffled by this cultural trait, he thought it would be a decent excuse to get a drink.

"Alcohol lady; give me two alcohol cup, if may you," Ucheknik commanded as she walked by. His lack of the common tongue did turn some heads, and he did hear some accusations that he was a "Christian" or a "Pirate". Like most Bretton words, he couldn't tell if they were insults or comedic remarks.

She spitted back, "Excuse me?"

"Alcohol, drink? I have thirst, so can bring you it, if may you."

"How drunk are you?" she interrogated the foreigner.

"What is drunk?" he questioned back.

"I've had enough of you!" she shouted, causing some of the customers to focus less on their drinks and more on the possible fight brewing in the back. Her hand pointed to the door, a universal symbol of leaving. Ucheknik understood this more than words, so he picked up his mace and shield and left the tavern. As he left, he checked his pouch of goods to see what he had left; only a pinch of cheap, assorted gems and a half-dozen coins. If he kept spending as much as he had been for the last few weeks, be would be broke by tomorrow. Ucheknik had an idea; it may not be a good idea, but at least it was an idea.

Once outside, he stood on a crate near the Goring Street Inn much like a Christian preacher would to a crowd of Trinity followers. He cleared his throat with a loud cough and began to advertise his services.

"If you be royal and need strong Thrall-Knight to lead small army, I can be very strong Thrall-Knight! Thrall Knight is me and strong I be! I more strong than you, if may you! I am great Thrall-Knight" Ucheknik bellowed, rolling every "R" he said and waving his mace like a lunatic. The citizens gave him odd looks, but this was a part of the idea. If the people started to notice him, the lords and ladies would, too. He would continue until night fell or a royal hired him. This might be crazy, or it may just grant me survival in this new world, he thought to himself, still shouting about being a "Thrall-Knight".

Goring Street, Downtown Bismarck City

Sitting in his chainmesh-windowed carriage, King Allister spoke with several of his advisers in the large berth.

"It is clear that we must marry your eldest to a Hastiakan. With two generations of marital connection to House Wharlaey, the Waldheims will love us forever¹," said Wharlord Gorman Hasbjorger of The Pass, Allister's chief adviser. Allister remained silent, though the debate between those in the cart continued. A strange man in bulky armor caught his eye. He exited a tavern in a rather disgruntled fashion. And then, he began shouting.

"If you be royal and need strong Thrall-Knight to lead small army, I can be very strong Thrall-Knight!" he said, in a foreign accent that Allister could not place. "Thrall Knight is me and strong I be! I more strong than you, if may you! I am great Thrall-Knight!" the strange man bellowed. He looked to be strong, with good armor and good training, and quite desperate. Just the man I need, Allister thought. He knocked on the door of the carriage thrice and a knight opened it.

"Driver, stop the cart."

The cart stopped, and the side door was opened. Wearing his traditional, minimalist black robes, King Allister stepped out of the carriage with several members of his entourage. He motioned for them to stay as he walked towards the gesticulating foreigner. He looked into the crazed man's eyes. He stopped his gesticulation.

"Who are you, strange man?" the noble asked.

[Cymrea]

Green Castle
Fifth day of Dragon Moon, Year 612 of the New Era

A cold mist from the ocean smothered Vanovar. The mists were so thick that only the nearest buildings below the Green Castle were visible; beyond them stood tall shadows and faint light. It felt like some strange underworld, some timeless place between the worlds, where the damned wandered mournfully for a time before finding their way down to whatever hell their sins had earned them. Cambrius o Rosa Rex, King of Persica, stood on the balcony that led from his rooms, wrapped in a cloak of blue-grey timberfox fur, gazing down on the city.

Gwynnalynn emerged from the heavily curtained archway and stood a few feet away, gripping the stone railing and staring hard at the inscrutable mist.

“Something vexes you, love,” Cambrius said.

“No,” his queen replied.

“It was not a question.”

Gwynnalynn turned and moved closer, lowering her voice. “If you must know, I was thinking about trust.”

“A valuable commodity,” Cambrius replied, “that can be both bought and misplaced.”

“It was misplaced in Dexa, certainly,” the queen said. “Now all of Persica may go to war and thousands will die as a result. Tens of thousands.”

“It is most precious – and strongest – when it occurs naturally. Like between family,” Cambrius said.

“Tell that to Fianna,” Gwynnalynn muttered.

The king turned from the city below and narrowed his eyes at his wife.

“Fair point,” he conceded. “Trust can be hard to come by, even among the closest of kin.” Cambrius let the unspoken reference to Gwynnalynn's brother hang between them before moving on. “Dexa is a gifted agent. One in whom we placed great trust. She accepted an opportunity presented to us by House Cunningham and she bears a good chance to turn it to our gain.”

A servant in the deep green livery of Rosa approached from the archway.

“Your Majesty, my Queen,” he interrupted, “there’s been a raven from Victoria.”

“Very good,” Cambrius nodded. “I will receive the message in the study.” The servant bowed deeply and left.

“And that’s the end of the matter, then?” the queen asked archly, returning to the conversation.

“Perhaps,” Cambrius replied. “You believe the secrecy of the operation to be in jeopardy?”

“I’m still working to confirm that.”

“We must do better than that, love,” the king insisted.

Gwynnalynn frowned. “I interrogated that Bismarck doxy myself.”

“No leaks?” Cambrius raised an eyebrow. “No sponsors? No collaborators?”

“No, sweetling,” Gwynnalynn maintained. “The trail is dead. There is nothing to lead back to us. I told you, I handled the matter myself.”

King Cambrius turned back to the vista before him. The mists parted, like the curtain opening at a mummer show to reveal some new tableau. The great oak tree in the sacred grove of the castle appeared, its thick and verdant limbs spread wide. Acorns and stray leaves lay about the wide grey trunk in drifts of green and brown. The ravens were thickest there, muttering to one another in the murderer’s secret tongue.

“Let us hope so,” he said.

[Ravea]

Goring Street, Bismark City

Caw. Caw.

A large, blue-grey falcon soared over Bismark city, a pair of letters tied to its talons. Unaware, perhaps blissfully, of the importance of this particular day, it focused its sharp ears on the thronging mob of people below. Haughty noblemen, blade bravos, mercenaries from all lands, and even a few kings were rubbing shoulders in the streets today. None of that mattered to the falcon, though. Finally it picked up a familiar tune of a harp plucking away in streets.

Caw. Caw.

The imposing bird of prey swooped down, just skimming the heads of some startled market-goers before perching next to an unassuming middle-aged street performer. Smiling, she stopped her song and reached out to stroke the falcon's head.

"Archamicarus," she hummed happily. "You're six hours late. Rough winds, perhaps?" Her voice was silken sweet, and her bright green eyes sparkled in the sunlight as she stroked the falcon's head. Archamicarus scratched at his leg bonds impatiently. "Oh, okay. Don''t lose your temper." She swept her long blonde hair behind her and smiled to the small crowd that had gathered around to listen. "Sorry everyone. Show's over for today. I'll be here all week! Thank you for your patronage!"

A few disappointed grumbles rang out from the street as the onlookers tossed a few coins at the singer's feet and went about their business. She deftly scooped them up and covered the small harp she had been strumming with a cloth sack before untying the missives that Archamicarus was now straining to remove. She unrolled the delicate parchment and poured over its information quickly lest any unfriendly eyes were watching, absorbing the information as fast as she could read it. Sighing, the harpist stood and rolled up the letters before depositing them into her pack. More bad news. That's all the Realms had these days, it seemed. She hefted her pack over her slender shoulders and made her way to the inn down the street.

"Thrall Knight is me and strong I be!" The words rang like a bell across the square, the accent obvious. "I more strong than you, if may you! I am great Thrall-Knight!" What a strange man, mused the harpist. She had never laid eye upon such an odd set of armor. Another foreigner, keening for battle no doubt. She paused as a luxurious carriage pulled over to talk to the stranger, noting its Wharlish craftsmanship and colors. She hesitated even more when one of the Kings of the Realm stepped out of the carriage with his personal bodyguard. Great lords speaking to foreigners in the middle of a crowded street. Interesting. Then again, she always did consider the Wharlish an odd folk. Keeping her eyes on the pair, she strolled past the odd pair and into the adjacent tavern, hailing one barmaid in particular.

"Ave, friend. How goes the harvest, sister?" The barmaid looked startled for a fraction of a second before recovering her composure.

"A...Ave, sister. Particularly bountiful these days." The waitress and the harpist found a quiet booth in the corner of the inn and spoke to each other in hushed voices. "You were not expected in the city for another two days, Thresher."

The harpist raised her eyebrows. "It's Cornflower today, Rosie." She gestured outside at the royal spectacle on the street, specifically at the strange warrior gesticulating wildly. "Know anything about that one?"

"The foreigner?" Rosie shrugged her rather heavyset shoulders. "I just threw him out of the bar. Couldn't understand a word he was saying. I thought he was a drunkard. Dunno what a lord would want with him."

"Put someone on them to make sure. And take me to my room. I want everything you've got on the lords. And get something for Archamicarus, will you? He just flew for a solid week to bring me some rather odd tidings." Rosie curtsied somewhat ungracefully and showed 'Cornflower' upstairs past a locked door to a small study before returning to the bar patrons. Keeping an eye on the goings on in the streets, the Thresher of the Frumentius began to leaf through a stack of letters and reports on the major events of the past month. It seemed there were more lords leaving wheat on their thrones than ever, but with the upcoming Choosing and the creeping threat of savage hordes advancing northwards, she knew it would only be a matter of time for that wheat to turn into foxglove.

[Sveltlana]

Edvardt Tullestedt
Bismarck City
Kingdom of Victoria
Year 512 AT

King Edvardt wasn’t even bored by being in the capital of Victoria. His feelings towards that experience were of another sense entirely. Being forced to be away from his realm when he was most needed, in this most dire of times, when, for the first time since the Tullestedts had assumed the title of Protectors of the South, the barbarian heathen were allowed to go as they pleased through the south.

Ever since emissaries of King Arthur Cummingham, using that superficial honey-speech, formally greeted him, Edvardt knew that his time at the capital would be time badly, uselessly, and most likely indiscriminately wasted. All these diplomatic niceties, bureaucratic procedures; all that utter hogwash utterly vexed and frustrated the King of Royeg, whose chief preoccupation was the safety and protection of his realm before the coronation of a monarch whose priorities would be elsewhere.

To meet with those rulers whom, upon hearing of the alliance of both barbarian tribes and the invasion of the south, had merely laughed, was a concept both alien to Edvardt. Trying to work with those who dismissed the danger as merely superficial was disgusting to him. Those tactless men had deprived Royeg of military assets that could have stemmed the tide and saved countless lives. But it was too late now, and the realm now witnessed the ruin and destruction exacted by the barbarians on the proud and ancient city of Dalandt, a foreshadowing of what would befall the entire realm were the barbarian tide not quelled by the combined might of Ghondra.

Dalandt, formerly one of the most populous cities in the realm, fell into a burning husk, captured after a siege that bled its inhabitants dry and subsequently sacked of its age-old treasures by the uncivilised heathen. The church, a gothic edifice constructed of granite and sandstone, had been thrown down. Only the bell-towers remained, but these stood horribly disfigured and defaced, victims of torment exacted on them by the enemy forces. The corpses of twenty-thousand sons of Royeg that had perished defending that city, still bearing the liveries of the King’s loyal banner-men, were left to rot in the open. And this figure doesn't even include civilians.

Nevertheless, a King had to be elected if the realms wished to have any chance at standing against the barbarian onslaught. Of all the Kings present at the meeting, the only one with knowledge of what both barbarian chiefdoms could accomplish in tandem was he. For most of the other Kings, it was just a political procedure: he knew full well that at least one or two of his fellows saw this election as a gamble for prestige rather than a serious position of power from which to join the realm against the tribes once and for all, as the Cumminghams had supposedly done centuries hence.

All of this crossed Edvardt’s head as he sat as his desk, uneasily reading updates on every advance taken on the South by the Armies led by his son and banner-men. Rurmond, no longer a lad at eighteen, had taken leadership over his father’s army and was now punching into Dalandt, driving the barbarians from the city and the neighbouring area. The Twin Families, led by Lord Wildreth Duntwaithe and Lord Balther Enedwaithe, were securing the areas around the Royan hinterland, ensuring that the shortage of crops would be a problem reduced. Norwall, Krönstad, Throndeim – all three towns were now freed, although significant work would have to be conducted to reconstruct the castles that protected each of the three cities.

Edvardt stood from his desk and put on a simple leather jerkin over his blue coat and leather trousers. His crown, a simple golden circlet depicting thin sword-holding arms rising from water, rested comfortably around his shoulder-length hair, which he wore loose about his head. Fitting apparel for who had once been the best swordsman in the realm. As always, his steel sword he kept sheathed at his side.

“Eodred, Saevig” he said to two of his guards as he left his private chambers. “You two are on me today.”

“Yes, Marshal*” said Eodred. “What news of the mark?”

Edvardt was visibly pleased. “Rurmond’s pushing them out of Dalandt. We’ll push them back from the hinterland within the fortnight. The Twins are also at it, with some ten thousand and two horse each.”

“Which means we’re missing the action,” said Eodred. Eodred, back at Royeg, had once led a charge that had broken a force of six thousand barbarians.

“We are indeed missing the action. And for a worthy cause, if I might add,” indicated Edvardt, with uncharacteristic sarcasm. “Come, let us go. Don’t want to be late, do we?”

“Well, Marshal.”

Followed by his two most loyal and skilled guardsmen, and then ten other footmen which he had likewise indicated to follow him, the humble king departed his lodgings at the Royan Embassy, having politely turned down a good invitation by King Arthur to stay in the Keep (openly because he "liked the accommodations at the embassy", in truth because he did not trust being lodged in the keep) in direction to the keep, where the kings would meet.

“We’d be surprised in the South if the finest warrior among the Kings were not elected to the throne" said Eodred suddenly.

“I’ve no interested in politics, diplomacy, the throne,” said Edvardt in his low, deep baritone. “No. What I’m interested in is our realm, Ed. I once said that my people’s good is my good, and I meant every word.”

“Every word?”

“Every word. I am not one to lightly throw away his legacy – you know, when my family first came to power, we drove the barbarians from the coast, settled Krönsted. Settled Dalandt. Yes, and for the first time in five-hundred years, the heathen are free to do as they please in Royeg.”

“Five hundred years, Marshal!” cried Eodred. “Five hundred years did it take the kings of this damnable realm to decide that the heathen are a threat to civilisation, a menace to the evolution of the human race!”

“Now, Ed. While the tribes have been raiding, or attempting to raid, the South for so long, they haven’t really been a threat until now. The largest raid to ever hit us before the last few months, when the tribes coalesced into a great force, was in my grandfather’s reign; a hundred thousand heathen then stormed into the south, and a hundred thousand heathen dashed themselves into pieces against the walls of Tihres.”

"Tihres, now there's a fine fort."

"And the barbarians will do well to remember that," said Edvardt. But a shadow had crept over his heart, for in that legendary citadel lived his family in exile

Taking less transited roads, the delegation quietly made its way towards the keep.

Halfway to the keep, the delegation saw plumes of black smoke rising into the air.

"My King!" cried Eodred. "Those plumes of smoke, are they not coming from the keep?"

Edvardt spoke no answer, but, taking the reins in his hand, he cried twice and went towards the keep at a rapid trot, followed closely by his small, heavily armed retinue.

---

* = Although known elsewhere as “Warden of the South,” in Royeg or by Royans Edvardt Tullestedt is known as the “Marshal” rather than the “Warden” of the South, although they refer to other “Wardens” as such, as “Marshal” is in Royeg a traditionally more respectful term than “Warden.”

[New Jordslag]

Bismarck City, Kingdom of Victoria
"Hey, Andrew!" Andrew woke up with a groan. He was 27, and he still couldn't get any respect. The one who had quite rudely shaken him awake was his old friend and one of the few Female Knights, Alice Holly, who now grinned at him from the side of his bed. It's time to get to work. Alice wasn't very good at fighting, but she made up for it with endless enthusiasm and a amazing talent for Diplomacy. Andrew often wondered why she hadn't taken up a career in Politics, but whenever he asked, she simply changed the topic. He sensed it was a topic she wanted to avoid, much like how he avoided his Parent's death. He shuddered at the thought.

"Oi, you alright, Andrew?" Alice asked, the concern showing in her voice. "Ye-Yeah, I'm fine," He said, shifting uncomfortably. "Anyways, I have to get dressed. Kindly get out, since you aren't my wife or anything." Alice simply rolled her eyes and skipped out of the room. Slipping out of bed, Andrew swiftly got dressed. Alice wasn't a bad girl, though she could be annoying. She was a pretty 25 year old woman who had been friends with him for a decade. They met through thievery. He had been trying to steal a important painting, although it was ugly to him, because for some reason, it was highly valuable. He had been mostly successful in stealing it when, just as he approached the Painting in the Painter's house when he was approached by the Painter's 15 year old daughter. She had initially been angry at him, and he had had to run away that day. Alice wasn't tough, but she was intimidating. She eventually calmed down and tracked him down again, and began chatting him up. They became fast friends. Then, when he least expected it, she dragged him to the Police. He had had to break out of jail that day. She later apologized to him, saying she had to satisfy justice, and he forgave her. 2 years later, he faced the Hangman's rope. It was at that time some Victorian Princess spared his life so long as he served in the army. So he did. And it was through his ferocious service in battle that he had become a Sworn Knight. Alice was merely a Hedge Knight, for she didn't care one way or the other about the Victorian Royal Family, and they didn't want her besides, because, compared to Andrew, she had rather poor fighting skills. Don't mistake that as an insult; It's just that Andrew is really, really tough.

Marching off besides Alice, he started off on what seemed to be his Billionth patrol. "Ugh, this district of Bismarck City never has much crime anymore, Andrew." Alice complained. "You're just too good at cleaning up thievery." That wasn't true. There had never been much crime in this district to start with, and criminals usually detected Andrew before he detected them. He was never able to capture them, as they preferred to flee rather than fight him. It was due to his clunky skills of observation that Alice had freely volunteered to help him in Patrols. "Maybe they're simply hiding." Andrew replied. Suddenly, screams started. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" People screamed. Swiftly turning, Andrew saw that there was a group of houses on fire. He recognized this group immediately; it housed multiple leaders of the Trinity religion. But who would set fire to places like that? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw people dressed in all black fleeing the scene of the crime. These people had obviously had serious training running, for Andrew, despite his armor being designed to be lightweight, was unable to catch them. They ran out of his sight. "Curses..." He muttered. Then a thought struck him. The Trinity-Christianity tensions were at a high point. What if Christians were trying to weaken the Trinity by doing things like this? He had no proof, but it was certainly a possibility. And if that were the case...

"The Royal Family!" He yelled out loud. "Gather the locals and save any survivors!" He said, grabbing Alice by the Shoulder. Turning, he ran to the House Cunningham Palace. "I pray to all the gods that I won't be too late..." He said, muttering blasphemous curses under his breath.

[Ghondra]

The Royal Study
Royal Keep, Bismarck City

Arthur was studying up on the 4 Kingdoms of Ghondra and their history with each other, a field of study he was always interested, ever since he was a little princeling he wondered why there was constant tension between Victoria and Wharland, why the West and the South ally with each other on one day and the next day fight each other, why and how the Bismarck Empire fell. He blamed his father for turning him into such a history-obsessed person, all those stories about the Legions of Bismarck, the First Great Invasion, the feud between House Wharlaey and House Cunningham, all started because a Cunningham Princess eloped with a Wharlaey Prince, oh great, here he goes again.

He closed the heavy book entitled "The Gods and the Kings of Man" by Geoffrey Cirque, still only into his third chapter. He slipped the tome into place along his endless collection of books. He planned to sneak into the kitchen with his sister, to grab a piece of the imported Evoran Red Pie, just delivered by a boat that vaguely resembled the designs of long-boats he had seen, only to be interrupted when he smelled smoke, he widened his eyes, it was coming from his mother's chambers.

He ran to his mother's chambers, with him was a trio of Household Guards, all of them carrying a bucket of water, he nodded in approval of their initiative. He finally reached his mother's chambers, he could still smell smoke, muffled screams and gasps, his mother's. He banged on the door, commanding his guards to do the same, it wouldn't budge, something was blocking the way.

Arthur didn't know what happened next, but he remembered taking a few steps back, and with the force of a battering ram he crashed into the wooden door. He found most of the room having burned down, smoke was making it impossible to see, black smoke that stung his eyes. His guards put out the embers of fire, it looked like someone set off a barrel of explosive powder. He ran to his mother, she had one eye open, barely. She smiled, putting one burnt hand on her sun's cheek, tears streaming down both of their faces. "My son"

Arthur's ear-piercingly loud cry of anger and sorrow rang throughout the castle. Even the numerous servants and retainers desperately trying to put out the fire that started in the Castle's food stores could hear it.

[OOC: In the words of M. Night Shyamalan: "WHAT A TWIST!"]

[Cymrea]

Bismarck City, Victoria
Approaching the Royal Keep

Like an unceasing roll of thunder, the Persican delegation moved down the king's avenue toward the palace on dozens of burnished hooves and white iron-banded wheels. A team of twelve ebon draft horses pulled a deep green greatcoach at the centre of a modest entourage of cavalry and foot. Atop the bannerman's tall duskwood staff, the Viridian Cross - the banner of Persica - flapped lethargically in the light breeze. The fringes of the avenue were packed with the smallfolk of the city, all of whom waited and watched for a glimpse of highborn foreigners. As the greatcoach passed a certain elm tree, one figure in tattered robes came hobbling out in an awkward rush. Inside the luxurious carriage, pale sage-hued eyes watched the crowd just as avidly.

Lady Dexa Rosa - niece of the King of Persica - was normally attired in the simple grey and green robes of a druidess, and usually belted in green, though the Oak was not her Order. She was, in fact, of the Order of the Elm - the law enforcers and covert operatives of the Circle of Druids - whose belts were golden yellow. On this particular mission, she was the duly appointed envoy of the Raven Throne, representing her uncle King Cambrius and all of Persica at the royal court in Victoria. Her cover had the benefit of being a genuine appointment, and so this day she wore a flowing snow-white gown embroidered in thread-of-silver, trimmed in evergreen lace. At her throat was a necklace of charcoal-coloured pearls and emeralds set in silver. Silver and emeralds were woven into her flaming red-gold hair.

She should have been resting in preparation for her audience with the King of Victoria - her handmaiden had reminded her of this many times already this morning - but it was Dexa's eyes peering intently at the crowds astride the avenue. When the hobbling figure came hurrying out, she noted the elm tree and nodded very slightly to herself. This was her contact.

"Oh! My lady, look!" her handmaiden gasped.

"Hush, Taria," Dexa replied. "He seems harmless enough."

The figure began wailing piteously for mercy and charity. And that was her cue. Dexa popped the lacquered hatch at the front of the greatcoach. "Stop here!" she commanded the driver.

The driver bellowed a halt to the entourage, which was repeated by the captain of her guard, even as he moved to intercept the beggar with two of his infantry. The carriage lurched to a stop, the rolling thunder subsided amid a chorus of shouts to halt and hold. Dexa slid off her well-padded bench to the greatcoach's door and rapped upon it. The footman appeared instantly and pulled it open for Dexa. She might have opened it herself, but that would have unnecessarily scandalised her poor servants and her persona must remain that of a highborn noble for now.

A dagger's throw away, the beggar was held at sword-point by her guards, the captain barking orders to return the shabby figure to the rabble in Old Persican. Dexa held up a slender hand, beringed in silver and emeralds, and called in a clear, high voice. "Hold!"

The cavalry captain quirked an eyebrow at her, but voiced no dissent. Without looking away from her, he commanded his men to let the beggar pass. The figure continued hobbling awkwardly to the greatcoach's side, muttering lowly. Even this close, Dexa couldn't even discern if the beggar was man or woman. This could only be an operative of the Elm - not a druid, but one well-trained in their arts to provide skilled assistance.

With a subconscious effort at obfuscation, Dexa moved and positioned herself in the doorway of the carriage so as to block her handmaiden's view of the beggar. The fewer eyes that marked close details the better.

"You dare much, old one," Dexa said kindly.

"I'm far from home and the cunning lion is orphaned," replied the beggar in a wheezing croak. He - she? - smelled faintly of smoke and burned black powder.

"Ah," said Dexa. The exchange proceeded as scripted. "So you are mad, then. Take this to ease your suffering." From her purse, she took a small leather sack of coins, minted in the various duchies between here and Persica. This operative disguised as a beggar need no payment beyond that which would be given in Vanovar, but the coin would greatly aid in the journey home.

The beggar tucked the sack away and hobbled back to the avenue's fringe. Despite being the focus of so many smallfolk, the figure melted into the rabble and disappeared.

The captain raised his eyebrows in silent question. Dexa nodded and made the slightest gesture. Proceed.

The guard returned to their positions and the delegation continued their slow procession to the Royal Keep, once more a roll of ceaseless thunder. Dexa reclined back on her cushions as Taria strained in vain to catch a glimpse of the beggar. The cunning lion is orphaned. So the mission was an apparent success and the Queen Mother was slain. Arthur would be distracted, blinded by grief and rage, his judgment clouded.

She would send a raven to her uncle before nightfall.

[Ravea]

Brinehold

What a strange thing, Kennick thought, that such a large man can survive on such shallow breaths. He struggled uncomfortably to raise himself out of his wheelchair as he examined the body of his firstborn son. Anseal, First Ranger of the Siltstriders, has looking quite ragged to say the least. His left eye had been heavily scarred by a barbarian longblade and a pair of arrows and pierced his left lung. Anseal's left leg was badly broken from a fall off his horse and the snapped femur was poking out of bloody skin. Two household surgeons labored over the body with trembling hands; five straight hours of surgery and the physicians were still unsure of his survival. He would almost certainly never fight again. It was possible he wouldn't walk again either. A cripple, just like his father.

Lord Kennick Siltshield, the Salt Lord (often mocked as lord salt-and-pork), wheeled himself away from the wrecked reminder of his failing lineage and to the large stained glass window looking out over his city. Thousands of small fires dotted the streets from the masses of homeless refugees who had been flooding through the Granite Gates for the past month. He had instructed the guard not to turn a single soul away from the safety of the walls, but every day brought more and more peasants who had been burned out of their villages and putting more and more strain on his already severely depleted food stocks.

There were more fires far beyond the wall, huge bonfires beyond the edges of the swamps and marshes surrounding Brinehold. The fires of savages bearing down to destroy the last of his people. So far the barbarians had only begun to aggressively cut supply lines and trade routes; the marshes themselves formed a ring of disease-filled defense around the city, while his Rangers were so far able to hold back any war or scouting parties trying to pierce through. The Smoke Tower's impressive ballista towers would scythe down anyone who got close to the double walls. No, the enemy would wait this time. They would take their time and let starvation and plague to its work. Reports of sickness spreading through the population was beginning to put panic into the eyes of both the commoners and soldiers alike.

Kennick's daughter Medb had been fearlessly moving through the poorhouses and field hospitals handing out precious food and raising the spirits of any had the good grace to be in her presence. His other son Æðelric was still out in the field as far as he knew. The Rangers would look for Æðelric for guidance, even though he was barely a grown man. Siltstriders had nearly always been led by a member of the Household, and now they needed inspiration more than ever. The rangers hardly concerned Kennick; the mercenaries were the real problem. Swaggering knights from all corners of the continent-and some from continents unknown-were patrolling the streets trying to keep as much order as possible and waiting for the inevitable barbarian assault on the walls. He wondered if any of them actually had the spine to stay and fight or if they were simply milking the city of gold as many of his advisers had suggested. If his city was to survive, he would need more men.

Kennick motioned for one of his squires for pen and paper, pausing to consider what to put in his dispatch. He wasn't going to bother with his Liege lord; he knew the Tullestedts were already in as much trouble as he was. The Lord has already sent a few messages northwards but, typically of Northmen, they were either ignored entirely or dismissed as "overblowing the current situation." He would have to take chance with the upcoming election. Perhaps an emperor would realize the danger the North would be in if the South could not hold back the tide. If not, then they would all suffer for it.

[Ghondra]

RESERVED for reaction to the above post's letter.

[Kheeriin]

"Driver, stop the cart."

The cart stopped, and the side door was opened. Wearing his traditional, minimalist black robes, King Allister stepped out of the carriage with several members of his entourage. He motioned for them to stay as he walked towards the gesticulating foreigner. He looked into the crazed man's eyes. He stopped his gesticulation.

"Who are you, strange man?" the noble asked.

Ucheknik calmed down from his ferocious roaring and chanting; this royal could be the man to take him out of poverty, or the man to dismiss him as another privateer. He adjusted his helmet, which had almost fell off during his advertising. After clearing his throat timidly, he began to speak of himself, both truthfully and humble.

"I be Ucheknik iz Pustosh, last Guard-Commander-Knight of the island of the Pustosh. Small fishing village on north coast, you no likely hear of it because pirates invade with fire and chains. But, I good warrior. If hire me you, I provide own weapon, shield, armor," he stated, waving both his mace and shield subtly at the height of his shoulders. "I command part of army of you, they will fight with strength you never seen yet. I lead men and women into war-fields like legendary Thrall-Knights, but I be no legend, I be real. You me hire for short price, as long you me give shelter and food. Good deal, no?"

Ucheknik knew that this royal might try to outwit him and make him into a thralled laborer, not a Thrall-Knight, so he needed to stay vigilant. He swiftly and silently tapped his mace onto his shield's center a couple times, a Pustosh symbol of loyalty and servitude. Maybe this royal and I share some similar culture, or maybe he'll dismiss it as a nervous twitch. The culture of the Brettons is quite odd, if I was to judge them from these last few weeks. He thought to himself in his native language, which was much different than the tongue of Brettons.

[Valloria]

"Driver, stop the cart."

The cart stopped, and the side door was opened. Wearing his traditional, minimalist black robes, King Allister stepped out of the carriage with several members of his entourage. He motioned for them to stay as he walked towards the gesticulating foreigner. He looked into the crazed man's eyes. He stopped his gesticulation.

"Who are you, strange man?" the noble asked.

Ucheknik calmed down from his ferocious roaring and chanting; this royal could be the man to take him out of poverty, or the man to dismiss him as another privateer. He adjusted his helmet, which had almost fell off during his advertising. After clearing his throat timidly, he began to speak of himself, both truthfully and humble.

"I be Ucheknik iz Pustosh, last Guard-Commander-Knight of the island of the Pustosh. Small fishing village on north coast, you no likely hear of it because pirates invade with fire and chains. But, I good warrior. If hire me you, I provide own weapon, shield, armor," he stated, waving both his mace and shield subtly at the height of his shoulders. "I command part of army of you, they will fight with strength you never seen yet. I lead men and women into war-fields like legendary Thrall-Knights, but I be no legend, I be real. You me hire for short price, as long you me give shelter and food. Good deal, no?"

Ucheknik knew that this royal might try to outwit him and make him into a thralled laborer, not a Thrall-Knight, so he needed to stay vigilant. He swiftly and silently tapped his mace onto his shield's center a couple times, a Pustosh symbol of loyalty and servitude. Maybe this royal and I share some similar culture, or maybe he'll dismiss it as a nervous twitch. The culture of the Brettons is quite odd, if I was to judge them from these last few weeks. He thought to himself in his native language, which was much different than the tongue of Brettons.

King Allister looked upon this mountain of a man. Powerful, yet powerless. He was perfect for the purposes that Allister had in mind. He motioned for his guards to escort Ucheknik to the Wharlish Embassy. He would be given food, drink, bed, and bath in the Embassy, and then he'd begin his formal training in the ancient Wharlish art of Saibrefÿte. In a good four weeks, he'd be ready for Allister's uses.

"Fare well, Ucheknik iz Putosh. I will accept your deal. We will dine this evening in the Embassy. I mustn't be late for today's meeting," Allister smiled evilly, "I think it will be interesting, to say the least."

Allister whirled around and walked briskly towards his carriage. The doors opened from the inside and he rejoined his advisers in discussing matters of the realm. But his mind was elsewhere. Thirty years of careful plotting, scheming and manipulation was about to culminate. He had heard about the terrible situation in Brinehold. And if Brinehold fell, then Hastiaka would shortly as well. Wharland was not known for a powerful army, and the Barbarians would put further strain on their trade routes through the mountains.

"Write a letter to Lord Waldheim, and tell him to send a quarter of a million bushels of wheat, oats, barley, and rye each to Brinehold. Also send him a team of our best medics. I want leverage in the South." Allister commanded one of his innumerable pages.

"Yes, your grace. Immediately, your grace," the minor nobleman's youth said to his King. A million bushels of crop were nothing to the Wharlaeys - they had thrice that amount in their stores alone - but for Brinehold, it would be enough to hold them over for two, maybe three months, considering the amount of commoners that were in the city. The crop would be there in less than a fortnight, if the pigeon got there as expected. The Duke of Hastiaka was a personal friend, especially since his daughter was to be married to his eldest son.

"Oh, and Jonathan —"

"Yes, your grace?" the page asked, giving his master a quizzical look.

"Also mandate that a force of 500 riders be sent to aid Lord Kennick's forces at the border."

"Of course, your grace. At once, your grace."

"And please, for gods' sake, stop calling me 'your grace'. I've always hated the moniker. I am many things, but it would be a bold-faced lie to say that I am graceful. Call me 'sir'. Short, sweet, and befitting."

"But isn't that a knight's title, your grace?"

"No, 'ser' is a knight's title. And you are the son of Wharlord Johnathan Garleigh of Garland, a knight is below you in title," he said, with an irritated expression.

"Of course... sir?"

"Indeed. Now finish that letter."

"Yes, sir."

King Allister went back to looking out the window as the carriage made its way slowly towards the Royal Keep. Just then a knight rode towards the carriage, waving his arms wildly, motioning for the driver to stop. He did. One of King Allister's advisers, a bald man by the name of Grimley, looked around, confused as to why they had stopped.

The door opened, and the now standing knight entered the carriage.

"Your grace!" said the knight. King Allister gave a knowing look to Jonathan, "yes, knight?"

"Today's meeting has been cancelled as a result of the assassination attempt on his majesty King Arthur's mother." King Allister reacted with a mixture of shock, awe, and inquisition. He had a million questions, but he cleared his mind as the knight left the vehicle and the doors shut. The carriage made a turn-around and began the journey back to the Embassy.

"Who could it have been?" Allister asked to nobody in particular. His page, a boy who he thought of high intelligence but great repression, spoke up.

"It could have been the Persicans, sir. The only two entities in the realm that I can think of that would a) have the capability to assassinate someone that high up within the Victorian government and b) have the motive to do so are you and King Cambrius. And since you didn't do it, it is likely the Persicans."

He thought on it a moment. The more he did, the more likely it sounded.

"You're smarter than I give you credit for, boy."

"Thank you, sir."

[Krugmar]

Soviore, Mantovani Castello
A week before the Council of Four

Nicomede Mantovani made his way into the great hall of his ornate and luxurious palace, dressed in a simple black robe adorned with a plain golden neck piece. With him was his eldest son, Orsino, and his two younger sons Marco and Cristo. "Sua Grazia , il Signore di Soviore e High Patriarca, Nicomede Mantovani" announced a herald, causing all the courtiers to bow and acknowledge his presence. Nicomede gave a brief smile, before he took a seat on a small wooden but very comfortable chair. Orsino took a seat to his right, while Cristo and Marco stood upon opposite sides.

"Welcome all, I am to announce that I have elected to travel to this Council that the Brettonians are holding. I am intrigued by such an event, and I wish to learn more about our neighbours. My dear brother Lucio and my son Orsino shall rule in my stead while I am departed" said Nicomede, gaining shocked murmurs in return.

Orsino lent in close, "Padre, are you sure about this?" he asked, prompting Nicomede to wave his concern away.

Nicomede pulled himself out of his chair, and motioned for Marco to follow him, leaving Orsino to take court as usual. They walked into an adjacent room and Nicomede turned to face his son. "You and Cloe will accompany me on this trip, I believe it might be in our interests to make some foreign allies. I will take a full company of our Mezzanotte, around thirty, as ample protection" he said. Marco simply nodded, then watched as Nicomede retired for the day to gather his things and prepare for the trip.

Bismarck City, Kingdom of Victoria

Nicomede made his way through the barbaric streets, holding a cloth to his mouth to block out the horrid smells. Behind him was his son Marco, and daughter Cloe, and around ten black cloaked Mezzanotte guards. They soon arrived at the Royal Keep, and one of the Mezzanotte strode up to one of the guards. "His Grace, the Lord of Soviore and High Patrician, has arrived and wishes to gain entry to speak with the lords and majesties gathered here" said the guard, before stepping back.

[Chazicaria]

Somewhere in Royeg

Blood. It was all around- dripping from his sword, covering his armor, pooling on the ground.

Kane recoiled his arm from the strike, bringing it back to a ready stance. As he did so, the strike's target, a simple barbarian raider, let out a shriek unlike anything a healthy human could. Indeed, this gurgling shriek was only possible because of the blood seeping into the young man's lungs and trachea. This told Eric that his opponent's artery had been severed by the steel of the knight's longsword. It was a good hit, if a bit vertical.

Eric had intended for the strike to decapitate the man, though a last-second reflex on part of the raider had caused the steel sword to be deflected by the barbarian's forearm. This deflection angled the sword down a bit too far, resulting in a deep cleave that spanned from the unlucky warrior's neck, to nearly his sternum. Angles could make such a difference, in sword-based combat.

Though all of these thoughts passed through the mind of Sir Eric Kane, leader of the Deadthorn Mercenary Company, his more immediate concerns were his other men, each one engaged in combat with another of these filthy savages. Marvelous. Being that no enemy dared assail the armor-clad soldier, he had a few moments to breathe and examine the entirety of the battlefield. So far, his ambush plan had gone off without a hitch! Having stalked these particular savages for days, across a wide breadth of land, it was satisfying to see the brutal bastards finally being slain in battle.

Even knowing, however, that this was nothing but a simple, disorganized, raiding party and not a fully accurate representation of what he and his men had been hired to help fight, Kane was confident that this battle's experience would prove invaluable in the future. Lessons learned here could be used against the barbarians on a larger scale, and that could turn the tides of war.

Content with his observations, Sir Kane gathered his mind once more, and waded back into the fight, sword and shield at the ready.

[Das Germane imperie]

Atharthan wilderness

It chafed in Paul's knees. He had prayed for hours, to the Holy Cross, which was driven into the earth. The dark, tangled woods concealed the Christians activities, which gave him an opportunity to march undisturbed and safely. Thousands were praying with him. Some people kneeled down for a couple of minutes, just to leave and continue with whatever they did in the campsite. But the most faithful stayed and prayed with Paul. When he got up the others followed his example and looked up at the cross.

He walked up on a stone and started to preach to the masses.

"Children of god! Hear me! For I am Paul, descender of christ and his successor. I am the representative of god, and god's words must be followed. Our lord tells us to go eastwards, were we shall embrace our fate as converters, cleansers and saviours. For we shall not give up our sacred quest to spread christianty. We shall spread it with the sword and the cross!"

Some of the more worried, newly converted peasants yelled back.

"But Bishop, eastwards? That is where we were persecuted and haunted by the heathens?" One of them yelled "And should we really do it violently" another one asked.

Paul raised his flat hand, respectfully.

"The holy bible may preach peace, but when christendom itself is threatened, then it is every christians duty to take up arms and defend all that is holy. I call a crusade against the Northern Brettonnians, with the goal of all sinners and heathens being converted to the one true faith."

The crowd cheered as he went down from the stone gently. He looked up into the sky and thanked the only thing he lived for.

[Sveltlana]

Rormund Tullestedt
Fivefinger Delta, Dalandt
Royeg of the South
512 AT

Rormund straightened the long fibers of hair that emerged from the crest of his helm before removing the solid work of steel. Using the back of his tough leather glove, he wiped blood from his sunburnt forehead. His heavy plate was rendered opaque by the thick crimson liquid, which had in places become so think that it had clumped together. His trusty right arm, still protected by a steel gauntlet, was soaked with it. Worst of all, the blood's iron smell seemed to mingle with that of the plate, seemingly making going around with spatters of blood a normal and ordinary thing.

Despite his skill in the art of warfare, Rormund was, by all accounts, a young man who enjoyed peace.

The whole field was covered with corpses of the barbarians – this latest battle, the Battle of the Fivefinger (a river), had been a massacre: a wild, vengeful inquisition rather than a true and chivalrous test of arms. At least four thousand barbarians, drunken with the spoils of war, had been slain in that bloody field, while Rormund was sure that his forces had suffered no more than three hundred casualties, of which perhaps a few dozen had been deadly.

In the distance, about thirty miles from the field of battle, the smoke rising from Dalandt could still be seen. Rormund, covering his face from the sun, peered at the city. At that distance, only the three towers – representing the father, mother, and child – were visible, still standing despite the ruin and wreck that was about them. Perhaps the barbarians lacked the might to demolish such massive structures: the father tower was almost three-thirty units tall, and nearly seventy across. Still, the keen-eyed would have seen the Blue Tower of Betzdorff Castle rising from the black smoke that covered the city in soot and ash.

During his reign, Rormund decided, he would make Dalandt more grand and more splendid than ever it had been, even before the attack of the barbarians.

“Moving west, sir?” suddenly inquired a young squire as he approached.

“Eh?” Rurmond, with a turn of the head, snapped back to reality.

“Dalandt is west, sir,” said the squire. “I would assume we’re marching to Dalandt.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Dalandt is west. We're retaking Old Brynjdolf's city.”

“Here, sir, take this." The young squire handed Rormund a pile of paper. "The report of the scouts, sir.”

“Excellent, thank you. What is your name, squire?"

“Berchtold, sir, son of Barahyr Kastmont.”

"Ah, of course – your father is a landed knight. I remember meeting him at a tourney once. Fine man. But thank you for your time, Berchtold. Send word to my footman, I'll instruct him to tell the companies that they have the rest of the day off. We may be resting tomorrow as well, depending on these reports. How was the fighting?”

“Good, sir. I wasn’t cloven.”

“I doubt many were!" chuckled Rormund, who himself had sustained heavy blows on his shield arm. "The first thing these damned barbarians should learn is how to rout in good order. They make it easy for any force with a horse contingent. One hasn’t to think; he sees the barbarians routing and he unleashes the horse to do as they seem fit, riding through and through the cowardly bastards until they’re off, or they’re dead.”

“Morale is what they lack, sir,” said Berchtold emphatically. “The only real reason why they would advance into the North is looting and sacking. We in the South, we fight for friends, family, sir.”

“Aye. Where’s your family, Berchtold?”

“My family, sir?” asked Berchtold, clearly surprised. “Well, sir, last time I laid eyes on ‘em, sir, they were down at Brinehold. I’m afraid, sir. They say food’s there running damn low, and sickness is starting to spread.”

“Aye, I’ve heard the reports. A damned pity. But the rest of the realm is already bad as it is. My father, have you met him?”

“The Marshal of the South? Of course sir, I used to squire for his cousin.”

"His cousin? Who do you squire for now?"

"Lord Ranwelf of Klatstkol. He's a Knight currently fighting for you."

“Yes, I do know him. The Marshal is working hard to make things better down here. My father, he’s told me, he’s got no interest in any position of power over the kingdoms. Plain and simple, he wants the good of Royeg. My father says that if he can back a candidate who promises to unite the realm against the hordes, that he’ll do so. You know, Berchtold, Royeg used to be twice as big as it is now?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Our realm used to control all of the Gulf of Royeg. Our land spread to the feet of the mountains in the south. Hell, we used to control both necks for a change. Trade from the south, it all passed through our realm. We were richer than Victoria in those days. Persica… they had fear of Royeg, did you know that? Can you believe it? The Druidists... they knew for a fact that it was Royeg and Royeg alone who controlled the south. In their foul caves, the barbarians grew and multiplied… and you know the rest. In any case, enough talk.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Get me my footman. I need to get this armor off and clean. I'll tell the captains to set up camp in that position. See that plateau? That stream there should give us water for a day or two. We need to set a watch as well. Have the scouts be sent around again. If any barbarian bastard sees it fit to approach, by the gods, I want to be ready.”

“Yes sir. Right away!”

Edvardt Tullestedt
Royal Keep, Bismarck City
Kingdom of Victoria
512 AT

At a rapid trot, close to a gallop, thirteen horsemen rode into the open gates of the keep where smoke built up and accumulated over the skies of Bismarck City, its black plumes a foul stain on the otherwise picturesque capital sky. The standard of House Tullestedt, the hand rising from the water bearing the family sword, shone in a light blue brilliance as it fluttered into the keep.

Edvardt almost jumped of his horse, followed by his two guards and then the footmen.

“You ten!” he said to the ten footmen. “Go and help the stable boys with the fire. More likely than not they’ll end up spreading it across the keep. You two,” he motioned to the guardsmen, “on me. Go, go!”

Edvardt and the two guardsmen rushed to the nearest person attired in the livery of House Cunningham.

“Lord Edvardt Tullestedt,” began Eodred, “First of his name, Warden of the South, Protector of Royeg, King of Royeg, Lord of the Southern Marches, Bearer of the Sword of–“

“You know who I am,” interrupted Edvardt, talking to the guard. The guard nodded. “Where is King Arthur?”

“The meeting has been cancelled, my Lord, cancelled indefinitely. We have no knowledge of when it will be safe to–“

“Don’t test my patience, footman. Is the King safe?”

“Apologies, my Lord. Yes, his highness is safe. He currently does not wish to be interrupted, as he is mourning the death of his mother.”

Edvardt paled slightly. “His mother?”

“Yes. She was burned, the practitioners all say that she is either already dead or bound to perish. Now, sir, I am sure that we can arrange for a carriage to carry you back to the Embassy.”

“Our horses will do just fine. Keep them tied. And, footman, I will let you know that the queen mother is my aunt.”

The footman was sundered from the cold, lifeless, protocol persona that he had assumed.

“My deepest apologies, my deepest apologies, your highness. I, I will ensure your horses be ready.”

“You do that.”

Edvardt motioned for his two guardsmen to stay at the gate as he dashed inside, asking to be guided to where he could find either his cousin, King Arthur, or his injured aunt.

[Chedastan]

Bismarck City, Kingdom of Victoria

A small group of five men made their way through the city, walking straight for the Royal Keep. They had just arrived that day, after several days of traveling from Lakir. They had arrived with the purpose of giving the newly crowned King of the North, King Arthur, their best of wishes from House Valkir. And of course, a parting gift of Lakir Blood Gemstones before they are to return home. It was none other than Lord Warren Valkir leading this retinue that had consisted of three of his most loyal House Retainers, and his humble, yet vicious House Adviser, Orris, Tongue Ripper. With the exception of Orris, Warren and his House Retainers were clad in Valkir Heavy Plated Mailed Armor, arguably one of the most strongest armors available in North Brettonia, and perhaps even the world. Of course one has to be very strong in order to wear such and armor, let alone use it in battle, which helps to explain why Warren and his House Retainers seem to tower over much of the denizens of Bismarck City. Indeed while they were walking through the City, a good number of people quivered at the sight of these almost unsavory and intimidating looking men. Warren was quite amused by this, as it helped to cement his dream of becoming yet another incarnation of the Terror of the West once more. Indeed for a time, House Valkir held that reputation quite well, before things had started to decline for them, and the string of disastrous defeats happened, reducing their control to just Lakir alone. It is Warren's life ambition to see his House regain what he felt was always theirs, and sack and burn down every city that wasn't theirs, including Bismarck City. But he knows he must be patient, as they are still needing to regain their own footing, but within time, after they're done playing this charade, he will soon live up to being a Warlord like the first New Era Valkir Warlord, Warlord Ravv, The Butcher.

As they continue to the Royal Keep, they started to smell something familiar in the air, smoke. Warren had his group come to a stop, he looked above, and saw smoke rising above buildings. "What you think it might be, Orris?" Warren asked his adviser.

"Not quite sure m'lord, but clearly some damn fools no doubt. Might I suggest we investigate? As to help get in well with the new King."

"Yes, that sounds like a splendid idea, Orris, then do you want me to rub his feet, and fill his cup with wine afterwards?" Warren said sarcastically.

"No m'lord. But our relationships here aren't well as they are, but at least it's not so bad as we have to worry about what you suggested." Orris chucked a bit.

"Aye. No matter though, I wanted to kill some poor fool since we got here anyway. Come on!" They headed straight to where the smoke was coming from, and upon making a turn on a street, they saw several houses a ablaze, burning down to the ground. The retinue heard many screams of agony from those trapped inside their homes, doomed to die a painful death. Of course being from House Valkir, the retinue itself was rather unfazed by the horror happening before them, perhaps morbidly so. They saw several darkly dressed suspicious figures leave from the scene, no doubt the perpetrators. From the looks of it, several of them tried to leave in the direction that Warren retinue then came to, seemingly not expecting them to show up, at least not Lord Warren Valkir himself. Before they could have a chance to hit them with their weapons, the suspiciously dressed figures had quickly slipped by them, with the exception of one that was unfortunate enough to lag a bit behind the rest of his fellows. Warren was quick enough to throw his war-pick at him, causing the man to drop to the ground, with a war-pick in his back. The man was still alive when Warren and retinue had walked over, Warren retrieved his war-pick from the man's back, and rolled him over to punch him several times in his face. After making the man's face bloodied, he grabbed him by his collar, and asked him sternly. "Who are you, and what's the meaning of this?"

[Asyir]

Ryndar "The Hammer" Steelheart
On the outskirts of a village, Southern Wharland:

Ryndar rode at the head of a large and thick column of horse and men. The long column of black and red clad men stretched for miles behind Ryndar. The lands were flat and filled with a sea of green grasses, some strands nearly up to a riders heel. For nearly a fortnight, the company of nearly nineteen hundred horsemen behind him, marched endlessly towards the coastline, where Ryndar's infantry were hidden in the crags there.

For months, Ryndar had led his company in the south lands, pillaging and destroying the barbarians found there. Now, he marches back to civilization to regather his strength and supplies. Ryndar's elite horsemen followed closely behind him, kicking up dirt and dust, announcing the small village of their arrival.

Upon nearing the small wooden palisade that acted as it's wall, Ryndar saw several militiamen scatter and run across the ramparts, as if they sensed a brewing storm of horses were coming upon them. Little did they know Ryndar had no intention of sacking the pathetic village. They had no riches he desired, and razing a village would invoke the wrath of some lordling or noble, people whom Ryndar needed for income. In truth the village was not worth the risk.

A tall guardman Ryndar suspected to be the leader of the towns defenses, looked down upon the force, half expecting and arrow to end his miserable life. Instead, the tall leather clad man sighed heavily,"who are you? What do you want?"

Ryndar dismounted from his large stallion. A few of his soldiers followed suit. "I seek supplies and shelter. Or at least the former."

"We have no shelter for the likes of you. Nor do we have supplies to spare to wandering barbarians. Leave now, before we get angry."

Ryndar was not satisfied with the man's answer. He turned rand whispered the his lieutenant Willam,"go and alert the skirmishers to move up. This village will be ours by nightfall."

"Yes sir!" Willam saluted, as he ran towards the back of the line.

"Very well sir," Ryndar said grimly with a smirk across his face,"have it your way."

"Set the siege gentlemen. Tonight we rape and pillage this village."

[Chazicaria]

Somewhere in Royeg

The battle was over, and it was another victory for the Deadthorns. Bodies littered the field, most freshly mutilated. An early estimate put the death count at over 340 barbarians to 27 of Kane's men, all footmen. A stop would have to be made to recruit more, though first the company would camp to full regain its composure. The men were set to building the camp, and within a few hours, tents and the like were set up. Fires were lit, and by nightfall the entire Deadthorn Company was resting and licking its minor wounds.

After eating, Kane called a messenger and his Captains into his tent. The messenger got there first and was dispatched to the nearest settlement, a place by the name of Dalandt. His message was to any nearby Royeg forces, asking if the Company would be needed. In this message was a report on their recent activities, which had included ambushing and routing two separate barbarian raiding parties, as well as an attack on a small barbarian camp that was promptly looted. An estimation put total barbarian casualties at 750, with Company casualties at exactly 92, putting the total men in the company at just 500. All of this info was included in the message sent. Kane would wait up to three days for a reply before setting out to simply continue their previous task of hunting the raiders.

Just as the messenger left the tent, Sir Joran Pike and Ambrose Melmin arrived at the tent. Sir Pike was rather ordinary knight- no special titles, no lands, no famous family. Instead, he was known for being one of the hardest men a battlefield had ever spat out. He was totally lacking fear, be that fear of speaking his mind or fear of charging enemy troops. That kind of bravery put him in second-command of the Deadthorn Company. Ambrose Melmin stood next to him, and was himself a completely different kind of man. Cunning, brilliant, and a complete idealist. Melmin wasn't a standout warrior, though he had a knack for field command, usually being capable of recognizing enemy weaknesses and how to press them. While not a part of the Company's management like Pike and Kane, he usually acted as council to both of them. His advice was welcome, after all.

Both of the men entered the tent, Pike in a gambeson and Melmin in a jerkin, then the knight spoke, "Sir, you called us here?"

Kane moved from the opposite end of the tent closer to a crate, then replied, "I did. I'd like to discuss something," after fiddling with a piece of his equipment for a moment, he finally straightened up and looked at his men, "You look battered, Sir Pike. The barbarians get to you one too many times?"

Sensing his commander's unserious tone, Pike replied, "Indeed. One of the bastards struck me right in the back with a damn club, expecting it do something. Not sure these raiders all completely understand the point of plate armor."

"Judging by their equipment, I'd think not. Though remember, these groups we've been dealing with are the weaker ones. They travel light on purpose- it allows them to loot more. This brings me to my point, though." Eric paused for a second to choose his words, "We're going to need to change the way we do things if we really want to make a difference. Wiping out small raiding parties will only get us so far- if we really want to take this company anywhere, we must hunt for larger prey. I've sent a letter- hopefully it will guarantee us continued employment, with greater rewards."

At this point, Ambrose and Joran both paused to think about what had been said, though Joran responded first, "I'll back you fully, sir. As long as I get to fight these dirty pests, I'll be a happy man."

Ambrose was more cautious in his opinion, "Though I have to agree with this action, I would like to remind you that we're only 500 men. We've seen great success, but only in these ambushes. We have yet to face the enemy on a true field of battle."

"That's exactly why we need to. If we don't know how to fight them in all forms, we can't call ourselves an effective company. Do either of you have any objections or other council?"

Both men looked at each other, "I do not, sir," Pike replied in a reassuring tone.

"Nor do I, Sir Kane," Melmin added.

"Very good. You are dismissed, then," Turning his attention back to his equipment, Eric had already begun considering the how he could further expand the Deadthorn's effect on the war. As he did so, Pike and Melmim left, and Kane overheard Pike's first words after leaving the tent. Something about "not caring where he took the company, as long as there was wine". This put a slight smile on Kane's face.

As long as there was wine.

[Ghondra]

-SNIP-

The Royal Keep, Bismarck

The Guardsman called King Arthur's councillor, an old and stout man with balding white hair and narrow green eyes. "I am sorry My lords, King Arthur is still in mourning for his late mother and none of the Kings have announced their arrival, however as a representative of the crown, I would be happy to grant you bread and salt and host you until the Council has been convened. Will this be sufficient?"

---

The Crypt, The Royal Keep

Arthur bent both of his knees, urging his sister to do the same. The dark and dimly lit room housed the dead men and women of the long line of Cunninghams, from the first Cunningham, Jon Greatsword to his father, Christian Ironsides, and now it would house his mother for all time, the elegant, beautiful, motherly, and loving matriarch would be interned here until the end of time, it drew some protests from the Tullestedts but he didn't think his cousin, Edvard would mind very much.

He whispered a short prayer to the Son and the Mother, he hasn't spoke to the Father in a long time, and walked to his study, leaving his sister with her grief. He reached the royal study finding that two guards were posted in front of his study, flanking the door. He sighed, "Who put you up to this?" He asked to one of the guards, "Sir Andrew milord" Arthur grunted, "Fetch him for me please"

He walked inside, not even waiting for a response. He walked to a balcony, admiring the ghostly pale moonlight, he walked back inside, grabbing a bottle of Royeg Summerwine and a goblet. He drank his sorrows away, waiting for the arrival of his old friend, the Knight Sir Andrew. Then the knock came.

"Come in" He slurred. His face illuminated by the fire coming from his fireplace.

"You asked to see me Your majesty?" Asked Andrew, his ash blonde hair (OOC: Since you didn't really specify his appearance, he's blonde) reflected the fire illuminating the study. Arthur chuckled, "Come now Andrew, haven't we known each other long enough to call me Arthur?" Arthur gestured for Andrew to sit, to which he complied. "How long has it been? Since Alice stopped the hang man?"

"13 years I believe"

"13, yes, I think so too. You were what? 14, and I 10 name days, but you were barely bigger than me, all skin and bones, no meat. Me? I was plump, a nice way of saying fat" He joked, Andrew chuckled, accepting the offer of a glass of Summerwine.

The mirthful smile on Arthur's face disappeared, a shadow fell over his eyes, Andrew couldn't see the young man who had befriended him all those years ago, in front of him was a hateful, vengeful man. He could see it in his eyes, anger, hate, sorrow, grief. Grief could be a powerful thing.

"Andrew, can I trust you"

He hesitated, Arthur never asked him this before, his loyalty to the House was unquestionable, but with his recent retreat from politics into more... familial matters, Andrew understood why the young king asked him this. He didn't know the answer to the question however, and answered in kind.

"But would you, if needed be, answer your King's call?"

Andrew nodded.

"Then I want you to find my mother's killer, or killers, find who put them up to it, and bring them to me, will you answer your King's call?"

Again, Andrew hesitated, on one hand he wanted to avenge the Cunningham's lost, and this would give him the opportunity to find his sister, but could he leave the capital, in this time of great crisis?

"May I speak freely Your Majesty?"

Arthur nodded.

"I want to find my sister, Catherine. I believe she is still alive, and somewhere in the south, maybe even as far south as Persica. I will answer your call Arthur, but I wish to find my sister after I have completed my duties. Is this agreeable Your Majesty.

Arthur didn't hesitated, so clouded with anger was he that he would let one of the Cunningham's greatest knights be out of his service for what may be months, or even years. "Yes, you may"

Andrew stood up, walking to the door, "Arthur" He called, the king didn't face him, preferring to eye the brewing fire. "One last piece of advice: Take care of your family Arthur, in times like these, you can only rely on your family.

The door closed with a loud thud, at midnight the Knight, fully decked out in Armor would ride to follow his mission. The young king would retire to bed, filled with visions of a more innocent time, a time long past.

[OOC: I decided that Arthur's mother would die, contrary to my previous statement, sorry if this causes some confusion.

[Skaixeque]

Pompier Xixeries
The Royal Keep, Bismarck

Pompier had killed a servant as he was walking to the palace. Pompier made sure his daggers were hidden and he made himself look neat. His whole goal was to soy on the kings and seek employment from one of them. Or at least that was what he hoped, granted a hundred things could go wrong. He approached the gate and was stopped by the guards. "Sorry I'm late sir, I was running errands around the city and lost track of the time before I realized I was late." Informed Pompier, he was hoping that his story would be able to cover his lie and then get into the keep and look around find its secrets. Maybe even find some plots against the kings or minor lords.