The Grey Company

[Word Smith]

Chapter One: Opening moves

And so it will come to pass, that the Green Hand will extend to protect,
While the Red Hand extends to resurrect,
And Winged Vengeance shall blind the Lion,
And the Unseen will see the Truth.

- Excerpt from the Arcane Prophecy, believed to be associated with the Grey Company

IC: Gergoran Barka
Location: Camp of the Grey Company, Fields of Mennor

The thin sickle moon was slowly beginning to lose out to the approaching sun - the pink fingers of dawn were threatening to ensnare it. It was the moment before sunrise, when all of creation holds its collective breath for the great Jhi to awake and sing.

But Barka could not see the beauty in the spiritual dance. He had been woken up an hour ago by his secretary, Master Norry, with yet another sheaf of papers. Poor Norry, thought Barka as he leafed through the sheets in his tent. The man doted on Barka and would let him sleep through the Last Battle if he had his way. Barka had to order him to wake him up. Norry was sullenly lighting the lamps and making tea, muttering about lack of rest.

Barka grimaced as he looked at the report from the Ax Legion. Another fist of orcs had come to harass their eastern flank yesterday. Toric and his men had driven them out, but Barka was not expecting the orcs to be this bold, or this careless. Were they merely testing their defences? Barka knew that in battle, you always do the thing your enemy least expects. Except when your enemy expects you to do just that. This orc raid was a useless strategy, Barka knew. What was the Shadow playing at? He would have to talk to Toric about this. The man may not be able to quote sonnets from long dead poets, but Toric knew the battlefield. Barka had often trusted his friend's guts than his own.

"The Maleners arrived late last night, my lord," said Norry in between his subdued mutters. Barka scratched his rough cheek thoughtfully. So the Maleners had decided to bury the hatchet, had they? Barka could not imagine Sessandro ordering his troops to aid him, even if the Dark One himself was knocking at the gates. Perhaps the hot-blooded prince had decided to do the right thing? Still, Barka knew having the Maleners so close to the Belindorans might result in a few fist fights and tensions.

"Make sure they are camped at a distance from the main camp," Barka told Norry. He would have to contend with whoever was leading the Malener army. But Barka was ready to dice with anyone. He knew the numbers and they didn't please him. He needed every man and woman he could find, and he was already thinking of allowing the women to pick up arms as well. That wouldn't sit well with the old-timers, of course, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

He leaned back and thought of the fated words that his friend, Balin had spoken before their parting: "Beware the two-faced Eagle, my friend," he had said. "The Winged Vengeance shall blind the eyes of the Lion, says the prophecy."

The Winged Vengeance. Was that a reference to the nation of Malene? Too many unpredictable elements in this game. And he had raised hopes by resurrecting these dead words. Now, he was bound to them, bound to see it through.

"I am going to have a word with Toric," Barka said, gulping the hot tea that Norry had so carefully prepared. Norry often fussed over his table manners, but Barka figured that if you were standing up and drinking, table manners do not apply.

He stepped out of the tent as the sprawling camp was slowly waking up to activity. The night watch guards were turning in and the cook fires were being lit. It was a pleasant dawn - but Barka couldn't help but feel that he was living in a nest of adders, ready to bite each other at the first instant.

He knew that Toric would be up and about by now. His friend was a farmer at heart and could never stand sleeping in. He would query Toric about the orc raid. And more importantly, he wanted to talk to him about his indulgences with Aema, his daughter. The girl was getting too mischievous for her own good. After returning the salute of the few men who were guarding his tent, Barka made his way to the camp of the Ax Legion.

[Kegger]

IC: Toric
Location: Ax Legion Camp

His days as a farmer had taken a toll on his former life of indulgence, unable to go at it as much as he had before the life of a solitary farmer. Rousing to sleep only a few hours ago only to be awoken by the farmers alarm of dawn, after both battle, drink and other activities he wasn't himself. Needing more sleep but ignoring his body's need, knowing full well of the job at hand. Rousing to his side a bar maid that lay to his left, obviously the woman had looked better during the course of the night. Looking at her once more, it was really time to get up.

Toric hated getting old, feeling it in his bones. Pushing himself up to the standing position, itching threw the beard of thick hair before putting on his slacks. Grizzled, dirty and the looming stench of decaying blood still lingered into the air. The orcs smelled like that when their flesh was peeled, truly a filthy breed. Luckily at least the smell of his escapade last night prevailed over the stench but some sort of wash was in dire needed. Pushing threw drapes of leather, reacquaint himself with the outside. Barka would be by soon concerning the attack the previous day, it was idiotic by any standard.

Mozing among his men checking on the status of his men, despite the still lingering effect from the noxious amounts of alcohol. Cuts and scrapes was the majority of infliction's, keeping casualties to a low. Though the legion was a bunch of crude barbarians by most, each other's well being took precedence over idiocy. Something he had made very clear to Barka at the start of the legions campaign with the Grey Company. Hairy he'd do, suicide was another. Then again being a war monger, along with the rest of his crew sometimes it was job description to walk into blackness of death. Waving the thoughts away as Toric sat down to their encampment's fire, awaiting the first meal of the day.

Scars obviously apparent from the lack of a vest, welcoming the torment of the sky upon his barren skin. Toric biting into a bitter hunk of blue cheese, manners were obviously not apparent nor did he care concerning about, he was at the age and in the profession where they were not exactly a needed quality. Despite being bitter he continued to chew. Lost in the dancing flames look. Taking a drink of ale to eat at the bitter taste in his mouth.

Rewinding his thoughts to the battle past. Why would they attack so aimlessly? They were strong yes, but it failed to answer the obvious suicide run. A spark had hit him though, remembering that they seemed mindless in their pursuit of blood. A spell or toxin maybe? He couldn't make sense of it, maybe the two of them could. After all he was the brains between the two.

Out from behind the canvas of the forest of tents came the very man he wanted to speak to. Barka's timing was impeccable as always. Waiting for the man to get closer before Toric would choose to speak

"Barka, I'm going to assume your here on the report of attack yesterday." Drinking once more from the copper pint. "Simply put, they were aiming for suicide. Though something was peculiar about the attack, they seemed....mindless. Like they were being controlled." An eerie thought, but one he wanted feed back from Barka on.

[Dndd8686]

IC: The Dark Servant, "Azurus Baurum"

The fire was beginning to kindle once more. The servant stared, tentatively, poking at it thoughtlessly, shuffling on a log he had himself rooted on for the past several hours. He passed those idle hours of sleeplessness within the center of camp, keeping warmth amidst the glow he maintained to keep the darkness at bay, just now beginning its fade to the encroaching dawn. Despite his condition, he still wasn't fond of night. He depended on his better judgement to assure and comfort him, yet his senses tensed his nerves, lingering on despite the illusive touch of sun. It could have been on account of his restlessness, but with time, he began to grow an affinity to that affliction, much as a tree holds the weight of its branches, diverging with age.

No, there was something building. The servant couldn't tell if it was merely another sign of the curse within him, or the shade that was ensuing them all. Patience, the Voice whispered weakly throughout the night, as the wind grew harsher, or as a loafing cloud made its reach to dim the moon. He knew that the Voice stilted, held less power over him, with man-made light, though there was only so much that could be silenced. Patience, repeated the Voice to his servant, as he gazed on the sleeping shadows, silhouetting their tents. Men that were fortunate enough to afford the comfort of sleep through their inhibitions, and an even more fortunate few that held none at all; or those still ignorant to the harsh, cold sting of a war that swept like cooled wind. Patience for what...?, was all that the servant was left to wander. They could enjoy their warmth, while their still was a flame that lingered.

The servant spotted his target of interest as the camp began to stir. The General's most trusted concierge, known only to the servant as a "Toric" (feeling sorry for the poor fellow if that was his actual name), ate his morning meal with as much passion and life as a mule that chews its sod, clearly lost in troubling thoughts beyond his plate. Perhaps he felt the looming shadow, as well? From a distance he didn't appear to be of much merit beyond his girth, but the servant was wise enough to acknowledge his presence to others. The servant rose from his seat, continuing his surveillance as Toric paced towards the General's canvas, as he expected. He kept his distance, far enough from most men's sight yet close enough for ear's length, hoping to remain inconspicuous while catching a whisp of telling news.....

[DotCom]

IC: Aema el'Barka
Location: Camp of the Grey Company, Eastern Border

As dawn broke over the world, a curl of fogged breath rose and dissipated to the join the still mists of the day. The eastern border of General Barka's camp was all over drenched in a gray pall, heavy and dead silent, matching in hue of the morning clouds over head, and the iron fur of the horse and the steel eyes of his rider.

"Come now, Laoch, don't be a child. You know full well there's nothing about but m'self and your own yellow belly."

The great gelding gave another whinny of distaste but pushed forward over dew-wet crags and broken branches. No doubt, Aema thought, he smelled blood spilled from yesterday's battle, but there would be no good in turning back now. She wasn't here to fight, anyway, so much as...investigate. And at nearly eighteen hands, Laoch was such a brute, he oughtn't mind a whiff or two of adventure. It was bloody well better than delivering messages back and forth across the camp.

"We'll turn back soon enough, and you'll have an apple and a carrot for your troubles." And Aema would find Toric and beg him for news of what, if anything, yesterday's attack had heralded. Her father would not be pleased in her asking, but what her father did not know could not hurt him.

She was doing him a kindness, really, and by now, she'd said it so often, she'd even convinced herself. It was simply preposterous that the old man expected her to wait about doing nothing while kingdoms fell and the darkness closed in. He'd finally relented, if that was the right word, to let her join the Company, and then ordered that she do all of nothing, when she was better trained than most of his finest archers. What was the point of teaching her her trade if she could not use it when it was most needed? It was all a matter of efficiency. General Barka was too busy to bother placing his daughter where she would be most effective, and so young Aema took it on herself.

She was glad dawn's breath shielded herself and her mount from prying eyes. Laoch was a great beast, yes, but his coloring hid him well, and for his size, he moved quietly, when he wasn't mucking about in fear. Aema herself had tucked her infamous shock of red hair under a stolen--borrowed--cap and snuck out early that morning to disappear into the fog and check for signs of whatever the orc's had brought with them, for it had certainly not been intelligence. Dawn was the best time for these little adventures, as Barka was generally occupied, and the rest of the camp slept. Moreover, no one could interrupt her work, and she could be back among camp proper before anyone felt her absence.

It had been close, yesterday. When word of the attack spread, she'd hopped aback Laoch and ridden quickly, quietly, to the scene, her trusty bow on her back as it was during all waking hours. If anyone tried to stop her, she gave no notice. She was unconcerned. Few men could, and those few would likely be at the border. She herself had to hide a distance away and loose arrows when she could. She'd managed to bring one Orc down almost by herself, though later investigation would reveal the corpse studded with her signature red-fletched arrows. That would be a problem.

This morning, though, she looked only for signs of infiltration, or else something darker she'd not yet found.

[ElRey]

IC: Remulon Farnswell
Location: Fields of Mennor, Eastern Border, Scene of Orcish Raid.

Somehow, he had not stopped, his legs had pumped beneath him ceaselessly, aimlessly pushing forward, away from the horrors he had witnessed. That great evil that seemed to wind and coil all around him, the terrible darkness, that putrid smell of death which sought to wrap the world in its frozen hands. After leaving his home town of Ferend, he had encountered no dwelling or settlement which had escaped the furious wrath of those dark creatures.

The wilds were filled with all manner of beast, both terrible and docile which provided their own set of challenges, though with the ingrained skills and instinct granted to him through his profession gave him as much in the way of a chance as any soul could hope to have when alone for weeks on end as he had been. Using the feeble threads of his wits still left intact, fueled by that burning ire in the deepest pit of his stomach, he had persevered, evading the patrols of ghouls and monsters which seemed to be able to track him effortlessly by his scent.

He had persevered, though he had stayed hidden while a woman had her children slain in front of her before being defiled and decapitated herself. Despite being reduced to a pathetic shell of his once ample physique. The cold had taken the bottom fingers from his left hand, their twisted blackened form had begun to rot, a fever wracked his body as pus spilled from the fetid wounds across his back. Little more than skin and bone he had stolen the ill fitting coat of an orc, still slick with the vile blood of the creature upon it. As he reflected, it had kept him warm, but no doubt that blackened blood had caused the infection which sought to eat the very flesh from his back. Had he been less of a specimen and in the prime of his life, there would have been little chance of making it this far. But yet, here he was...

Though he had begun to wonder if his mere existence could hold that true anymore. His sanity had been battered and broken by his experience, there was a suffocating feeling of being a caged animal within his own mind, the shattered fragments of his psyche locking him into a trance like state. He drifted in and out of consciousness, more than once he found himself inches from toppling into a steep ravine or murky canal, his eyes unable to stay open though his muscles carried him on. The occasional wail of those things, which had pursued him endlessly, had kept him from sleep more than anything else. There was no way he could allow his body to stop moving even if he had wanted to, without risking painful death, or worse, enslavement. In truth, a number of the dark ones whom remained on his trail the longest he had recognized, other villagers from Ferend. The bread baker, a fellow woodsman, even some local children.

He shuddered in the still morning air as he swayed uneasily under the weight of his own body, tripping on the discarded and bloodied helmet, partially caved in by the business end of a mace by the looks of it. What had caused him to follow the sounds he had heard he could not say, it was oddly foreign despite its unmistakable origins. But unlike the guttural war-cries he had heard previously in their pursuit, it was those of distress, panic, and fear which bellowed forth from those distant orcs and dark ones. Something was hurting them. Even though he retained little more than the most basic fringes of his intelligence, those final firing synapses told him it had to be salvation, whatever form that took, even death, he would see it to its end.

The journey had taken him over the hilly terrain which surrounded Mennor, before spilling down into a broad valley. With the rising of the sun, the woodsman had found himself wandering blind through the heavy mists which had poured from the nearby lakes and waterways. Scarcely able to see the hand in front of his face, nor the bodies and weapons he continually tread upon, he surmised that perhaps he had in fact stumbled into death already, and he was now finding himself in an endless purgatory.

Dull hollow eyes gazed out into the murky beyond, as a sight jolted him from his trance. Fire!

He would know the sight anywhere, its warm orange glow inviting him to journey on, though the eerie silence gave him pause. Not a bird sang, not a footfall to be heard, none of the sounds of morning reached his ears. Until, from the depth of his vision, came a great shadow, like those from his dreams. The massive hulking form bore down upon him with a speed that seemed impossible in the still and seemingly sterile environment. For the first time in nearly a week, he found himself unable to fight, unable to survive. This was no salvation, it was his doom, his destruction. With his fate sealed, he crumbled to a heap, festering hands grabbed meekly for a nearby sword, raising at the form.

Laoch, already having a conniption over the smell of blood and battle which hung in the air as heavy and thick as the fog, reared back, whinnying in dismay at Remulon's huddled mass.

[AmazinglyVivid]

IC: Ayleth
Location: Camp of the Grey Company, Healer's Tents

For those who worked in the camp’s makeshift hospital, several large tents thrown up near its center, sleep was a precious commodity. It was something earned only when all of ones patients were tended to, or some kind soul offered to relieve them for a few hours. Both of these were rare occurrences indeed, however, thanks to the fact that they had about ten wounded soldiers for every one of them. So, things were always a bit stressful for the priests and priestesses who served as healers for the Grey Company. That made those few moments they could take for themselves all the more precious.

Ayleth, like many of the others, spent those moments in prayer. She knelt, hands clasped, facing the rising sun. The words she spoke were nothing special, routine morning prayers praising Jhi and asking for blessings in the new day. Even as lips formed them, her mind drifted far away. It went to the village she had called home for some five years. Its people, particularly young Maureen, a girl who was all of sixteen years and now their only priestess. Had she made a mistake in coming here? The question had plagued her mind since she’d arrived, almost a week before.

It was the sound of a barely hushed argument that roused her from her thoughts. With a tight lipped frown, she unclasped her hands and rose, then turned and walked briskly back towards the dark green tent where she tended her patients. Usually it was silent, save for the occasional whispers of priests or moans of hurt soldiers, but this sort of event had started happening all too frequently.

Perhaps it was to be expected. Most of the healers who had gathered were rather young. Ayleth, at eight and twenty years, was among the older of those there. This was due to the fact that most of the older priests and priestesses were too valuable to their communities to simply leave, and many of those who weren’t might have trouble making the journey there. While there were certainly benefits to having younger men and women doing the job, their ability to keep up with the strenuous hours among them, the conflicts that came with having so many younger people working together with no real leader were at times too much to bear.

“You’re an overly optimistic fool. We have no choice but to amputate-“ The first speaker, a large built and tired man, was clearly frustrated with the woman he was speaking to, his voice far louder than was appropriate, considering his surroundings.

“No choice?! We aren’t even sure if there’s an infection yet. You’re being rash. This is a man’s leg we’re talking about. A soldier’s! If were awake, he’d doubtlessly agree that waiting a few days longer would be worth the risk.” The woman, clad in the simple white garb of a priestess at a temple of Jhi, seemed downright angry, face flushed with righteous fury.

“Woman, you’ll be the death of him! We shouldn’t even be arguing about this-“ The man started to retort, only to be interrupted by Ayleth.

“You’re right. You shouldn’t. Look around you.” Ayleth made a sweeping arm motion, looking from one to the other with intense, almost silver eyes. “How comforting do you think this is to the patients who can hear you?”

Both of them looked at Ayleth with some surprise. Since her arrival, she’d spoken only when praying or addressed directly, responding with one and two word answers before going off to be on her own. Most assumed that she was shy. That the reason she kept her hood drawn was to hide the deep, ugly scar that stretched from her forehead to her jaw. That she busied herself elsewhere whenever the general or one of his non-injured men came to their tent out of some fear of being spoken to. These assumptions did not bother her in the least. This arguing in front of injured and dying men desperately in need of rest, however, certainly did.

“Erm, perhaps you are right. We shall continue this conversation outside,” The man murmured. Both exited the tent, while Ayleth remained behind to change the soldier's dressing. With scarred hands, she gently unwound the bandages, trying to ignore that feeling of unease she'd felt since arriving.

[Hymusia]

IC: Fida'
Location: Outskirts of Grey Company tents..

As the pink tendrils of dawn reached like a warm, fatherly embrace form the east she could imagine it was the hand of her king reaching out to offer his support. Just as he was a grand jester she too was playing her part a marionette to the strings of her puppeteer but no other position would she rather have. She took a deep breath of the fresh day, inhaling the morning's sweet scent as if it were a perfume of the rarest quality, releasing it with slow and practiced ease as an opium addict might. She did not like to be away from home but the freedom this and other jobs gave her was unparalleled, she could reach out her arms and feel the wind brushing through every strand of hair, between her fingers and across her skin. As if the world itself was rushing to greet her with her sudden release.

So far her infiltration had been a success Fida'? they would ask, why she was the slow girl, the dim-witted maid, the one who spoke not more than a handful of the words in the common language. She was dull, unmemorable, useless. She had even heard soldiers, perhaps even those of her own country, joke about how if it came to a fight in camp Fida' would be more use as a speed bump than a fighter or medic. Such a thing would likely shock the king himself and the very thought bought a blissful smile to her features as she rocked up onto her toes and reached out her arms as wide as she was able. Offering blessings to the sun, prayers for the King's safety and wishes for the days to come as the pink turned to a burned amber that usually was only seen in the palace roses. Apparently, her father had said, the pale pinky orange blooms were her mothers favorite because they reminded her of this exact moment in the morning. It only lasted a matter of seconds and was gone until the next day, of course they had been too poor to actually plant them but seeing them in the palace every day made her happy.

This was her favorite time of day, the cooks were still asleep, the other attendants were only just rousing, the prince was likely busy waiting for his breakfast in bed. No one to order her around, to yell at her, to call her an idiot girl. Sometimes, not often, it was so hard to hold her temper in check, she'd felt herself grip the blades in her long bell sleeves more than once before the rage had subsided. Luckily her acting was not as bad as her temper and, as far as she knew, any anger that manifested looked more like frustration or petulance. Soon she'd have to deal with the lustful jeers of the soldiers, the appalling manners of the other company and the derogatory words and snide insults, that back home she wouldn't hesitate to execute over.

Taking one last lungful of the fresh air she looked about herself to be certain she was alone, then she looked down to her feet, sighed lightly and with a small kick sent the ruined body of an enemy spy tumbling down the steep hill and into a thicket. She was unsure when he had arrived of course, perhaps towards the end of the battle the evening gone? However as luck had it she spotted him as she bought out the carrier pigeon she intended to send to the King that morning. She wasn't sure who was more surprised, however it was evident by the outcome she had gotten over the shock much quicker.

Releasing the latch on the pigeon's box she reached inside and took the little bird, white as the fresh snow and with a gentle throw sent it into the air. She had come with half a dozen of these birds, all of them squirelled away in the kitchens with the orders to be fed and watered for the Prince's weekly offerings. Apparently the cook's didn't second guess their culture and so far one bird had disappeared for every week they had been here. No one had questioned, not even the Prince who rather than royal birds was eating squab she managed to hunt down while off collecting 'herbs' for the cook.

Watching the bird only a moment she latched the cage and turned back towards the camp, slipping into her own, small partition; for she didn't have a tent of her own, between the tent of the soldiers and that of the Prince, to bathe herself in a barrel of a mix of rain and river water. The chilled water bought goosebumps to her flesh but they were ignored as she scrubbed at the dirt and the remainder of the blood upon her skin. Stepping from the tub the petite woman forwent drying herself, she was not given a towel either, to redress herself. She wore a cotton skirt that fell in two separate pieces, one for the front and one for the back, held in place by a pair of golden loops that looked a lot like the sun, it was white in color, immediately denoting her position as a worker and not of higher class. Her shirt consisted of one long, thin piece of fabric which was positioned with the middle at her back before they crossed at her ribs and chest and tied behind her neck as a halter. This too was off white in hue and matched the sleeves which she pulled on and fastened with brass colored bangles about her upper arm.

Once more she checked the partition for any peeping toms, while the people of her country, soldier or prince, were unlikely to spy on a changing woman, no matter her station, she did not feel the same confidence for the other country's gathered. When certain of her solitude she turned her back to the partition and carefully worked her arm's bracers into place. They reached from high up on her wrist to her elbow, the thick leather working both as a defensive structure but also, on the inside of the bracer, was a sheathe where she slipped the long, thin stiletto style blades. With that she slipped on the sandals she had learned to wear and found her comb to brush through her long hair.

So far none had asked about the old coin which had been woven into her locks, the one she now carefully undid, brushed through and re-positioned, perhaps though it was that they had drawn their own conclusions about such an artifact. However it was quite a dear thing to her and she made certain it was unlikely to come lose today before slipping out of the partition and over towards the cooks tents. They were always second to rise, they did, after all, have a camp to feed, so it didn't surprise her to see them beginning to stir as she silently entered the darkened interior and set a lamp on the tables that had been laid out for the cooking of the meals. With a polite bow of her head she went on to cook her masters breakfast and prepare his tea while the tent woke up and set to work around her.

"Oi, girl" Bellowed the voice of one of the other country's chefs, "Yer in my masters spot, get out the way before you get trampled." Bowing her head and grabbing her items she stammered a quiet, "Y-yes sir, s-sorry sir." The man snorted like a boar and threw down his own ingredients onto the place. It wasn't of course, said master's space, there was no such thing as a delegated spot, however there was a pecking order and Fita' was at the bottom here. She was bullied from one spot to another while the cook's and server's chuckled behind closed hands and whispered to one another about how they pitied the prince for putting up with her.

Eventually Fita' found a spot where she was undisturbed and finished her preparations and piled them onto a tray. There was a plate of a sweet smelling green chicken curry with a sauce that smelled like coconut's and fresh spices, a bowl of lightly grilled fruit drizzled with a little honey and the princes favored red spice tea complete with honey in a small dish and fresh baked biscuits from last nights dessert. Carefully balancing these things she made her way to the front of the tent where one of the chef's decided to play a 'harmless' prank and stuck his foot out in hopes of tripping her over.

Fida' hadn't seen it and did indeed stumble forward, the tray tilting slightly before she managed to turn, her foot 'catching' the chef's ankle and leaving him to fall into the tent's canvas while she staggered backwards. She turned again and looked as if she might fall but managed to right herself at the last minute. The cooks were laughing again but this time for another reason entirely and one, had they cared to look, would see that even the tea had not spilled a drop. Crossing the camp she realized the sky had turned to the shade of blue that indicated the new day had begun, already tents were stirring and some of the diligent were out practicing or training. She offered each that looked her way that shy, sweet smile of hers before dipping her head low and making a show of hurrying the next few metres.

When finally reaching her master's tent she rearranged the tray and slipped quietly inside, there was little a maid would have not seen in her country. From nudity to the results of a night spent well. Carefully she placed the food tray upon the table close to the bed and called gently to Quentyn. "My prince, a new day is upon us, please wake." She laid no hand on him, only called him in such a way as she set to lighting the lamps around his chamber and bringing down his clothes, freshly cleaned and dried, for the coming day. They all had their parts to play today in this grand production and today, as with every day previous, she would play her's well, after all what is an actor if not a person wearing another kind of mask?

[Rulaan]

IC: Quentyn Merithese
Location: The Grey Camp, Fields of Mennor

The golden darkness brightened. Black turned orange as night faded into morning, and a delicate whisper called for him to wake. His eyes opened slowly until no darkness remained. The smells of cinnamon and vanilla permeated the large canvas pavilion from the burning incense, writhing fingers of light smoke that drifted and swirled like a grey caramel. On a gilded tray beside his bed, warm food added to the smell of spice and sweat. Coriander and basil, ginger and garlic, coconut and cumin; all came together in an exotic aroma, the aroma of the sun, the aroma of home.

Fida was doing her morning routine as his personal attendant, deftly dancing between the shuttered torches and lighting the beeswax candles within. He sat up quickly as the haze of the morning left him, his body sticky with dried sweat. “Fida,” he called softly as he crawled from underneath the linen sheets. “Did the sun’s children sleep well? I don’t trust that Cyrius will do what is absolutely necessary and keep his Talons in check.” In fact, he may by the one fanning the fire.

The Knights of the Talon were all veterans of the War of the Wingless Eagle, formed by Cyrius in defiance of Belindor and Sessandro. They were some of the best swordsmen in the south, and he needed them if Malene was to be taken seriously in the Grey Company. Sadly, their talents came at a price. Quentyn had noticed that upon arriving at the camp, the Knights of the Talon walked in formation, distant from the rest of the Malener Army, with their heads held high in contempt for the kingdom they had fought a decade before. Their very presence seemed to set the Belindorans on edge, which in turn placed an even heavier burden on the prince’s shoulders. A few recklessly chosen words would certainly turn dying embers into a roaring flame, and pandemonium would surely ensue. Quentyn couldn’t have that, not after everything he had done. The prince and his uncle stood accused of treason, and if the rumours were true, going home would only mean death. It will not lead to that. My kingdom is a united kingdom, and if the Knights of the Talon fail to see that, then they shall suffer the wroth of the true eagle.

Though, Cyrius Porvo and his spiteful knights were not Quentyn’s only concern. He was yet to treat with General Barka, and instead of being welcomed by the general as befit his title as a prince, he was greeted by his dog, the prune of a man called Norry.

----

“The general has allocated space on the far east of the camp, over there beside that stream. I will lead you there if you’d like, milord,” he said with a raspy voice. As he choked out the word ‘milord’, the prince scowled at the man with ruthless crystal eyes.

“My prince,” he corrected him, rather sardonically, “and no, I will not need you to lead me there. I’m not blind, nor am I deaf, perhaps unlike yourself. Where is General Barka? A prince should be welcomed by noble men, not their dogs.”

Norry’s eyes widened, though not in shock. He was amused. The side of his small mouth curled upward slightly as the man failed to control himself. “Apologies, my prince, but the general is with the Ax Legion. He may return on the morrow, shall I send word?”

A slow, rueful grin crept upon Quentyn’s lips. “You’re a funny little man, but I don’t heed the commands of funny little men. You can tell General Barka that I will treat with him when he returns, and until then, the sun’s children will remain here.” As Norry scampered off, he caught wind of a curse and laughed at the general’s dog shook his head.

“What will you have of us, my prince?” his uncle asked as Norry disappeared into a maze of canvas and silk. Quentyn turned with an arrogant smile upon his lips, took his standard from a nearby knight, and planted it in the soft grass.

“Unpack and raise your tents here. I want ditches dug around where those rock formations are, and stones to be collected so your fires are contained. Your tents and supplies are your responsibility, and since we have very few women with us, you’ll have to clean up your own shit in the stream over there.” As he stopped, the army went, and by the time darkness governed the dominion of the sky, the Maleners had settled in… right next to the Belindorans.

----

The prince paused to examine the clothes Fida had washed for him. He stood naked as he watched, quite shamelessly. She had seen it all before, so he did not worry about his personal attendant’s eyes. In fact, he quite enjoyed it, and sometimes when he caught her looking, he welled up in pride. He turned to face her, as raw as when he was born.

“Do you think coming here was a mistake, Fida?”

[DotCom]

IC: Aema el'Barka
Location: Camp of the Grey Company, Eastern Border

Aema, though foolishly unperturbed, was just as on edge as her steed, and so when she heard the first instances of movement coming through the fog, the nocked arrow appeared in her hands almost without conscious thought. Laoch still whinnied anxiously beneath her, but he had read his mistress's body language, and was prepared to flee or fight if necessary. Aema didn't waste breath declaring herself to the newcomer, or shushing her gelding. If the thing coming through the mists was dangerous, it had already heard Laoch. She had only her bow to trust now.

She waited as the thing drew closer, hearing the haste and ragged breath of something human, and closed her eyes to aim.

"Make yourself known," she said suddenly. "I am Aema el'Barka, daughter of the Grey Company and master of the archers." A stretched truth was better than a sword wound. "Declare yourself or meet your death. You have been wa--"

The thing staggered out of the fog so suddenly, even Aema was startled. Laoch reared back and would have thrown Aema had she not loosed her arrow into the sky in order to grab his mane. She swore under her breath an in a fluid movement, righted herself on the horse, nocked a second arrow, and bellowed to her steed, "Calm, Laoch! He means us no harm!"

She of course did not know if this was true, but she knew the figure to be male, if only by its size. It had collapsed on the stone in front of her, causing Laoch to dance about anxiously, just barely missing the man's head with his heavy hooves. Aema was stubborn and rash, but not stupid. This could well be a ploy, an ambush. She ought to have fled to relative safety, arrow nocked just in case.

Instead, she slid to the ground, training the tip of her arrow on the man's head.

"Speak if you are able," she said from where she stood, almost statuesque in her aim. Her helm had fallen in Laoch's panic allowing flame red coils to fall over her shoulders unnoticed.

She waited half a breath than took a step forward, though she did not let her guard down. If she brought her father a prisoner of war, or survived this ambush and brought back recon, he would undoubtedly let her take the front lines in the next skirmish.

"You," she tried again, this time nudging the man with the toe of her boot. "Pledge your allegiance to my father's men or expect a death swifter than the one that awaits you if you decide to stay here."

Her gravitas was ruined when Laoch, still anxious, though now curious and impatient, trod on her foot. "Bloody hell, you foul beast!" she swore. "Can I have a moment's time?"

[Hymusia]

IC: Fida'.
Location: Prince's tent, Malener camp.

The last torch lit and with it she gently blew out the wick she'd used to light the lanterns this morning. As with every morning she placed it from whence it came, ready for the evening lighting and with that the prince stirred and called out her name. A gentle smile formed on her lips and she turned to face her once and future master as he questioned first about his men and their night. Before their journey to the Grey company Fida' had spent little time hearing about or in the company of the prince, she had not understood therein, why she had been chosen as his guardian for this journey. However with passing days she understood Sessandro's decision and his orders a little better. The Prince was a fine man already, however still young and a little naïve, sometimes when he called to her like this she often thought of a child, prideful but lost, wanting guidance but not wanting to ask.

Approaching the bed so she needn't raise her voice she spoke with humility, head bowed and hands crossed before her. “My prince our people slept well last night, Cyrius and his men were growing restless. However they found a few jars of wine and settled in for the night.” Though she did not allude to it she was the one that had helped them 'find' the wine, to cause an incident so soon after their arrival would not be tolerated. Of course the gesture had almost landed her in trouble, the men thinking that with the offering of wine also came the personal attendant who had offered it. Fida' had barely managed to escape without insult to the men or injury to herself and with her purity intact. None of which she would share with the Prince, it was not her place to say and it was not necessary for him to know. In the end the Cyrius and the Talons had spent their time regaling past battles until they had all fallen quiet just before she had finished her evening chores.

Once vacant the beds pillows and sheets were moved to one end so that the under sheet could be straightened and tucked tight underneath the mattress, this was usually when a man would get dressed, so Fida' thought nothing of fluffing and replacing the pillows and straightening both linen and silk until the bed was made, ready for warming later that night. As she smoothed the last of the corners the Prince spoke and she rose her gaze to meet his naked form, despite the regular amount this happened it still caught her by surprise and a blush rose across her cheeks. Indeed their future Queen was a lucky woman, Quentyn was the epitome of what a Malener should be, broad shoulders with a narrow waste, skin kissed to caramel perfection by the sun. As a woman she could admire his body for it's primal and aesthetic reasons and as the King's and now the Prince's attendant she could admire it for the warrior's physique.

As the shock wore off her blush faded and her eyes, though not noticeably roaming, left his shoulders and chest to fix on his face, his lips more aptly. For a servant, even when asked for advice, does not look into the eyes of their ruler, she even made sure that her stance was just so that she was at least head and shoulders shorter than her Prince. “You are the shining light of dawn upon our gloomy night my Prince. A mistake is not something you are capable of. However I would humbly advice my Prince to remember the story of the Fox and the Scorpion. If given the chance Barka will sting us, we should remain vigilant so we might drown the scorpion should it try to kill us.” Her voice then was soft and low, she spoke each word carefully, proving the delicateness of the topic and the thought she had put into each word.

Having seen quite enough of her naked Prince she reached for the shirt off his bed and carefully lifted it, sliding her fingers inside the fabric so she might lift it up so he might easily slip it over his head. Her eyes once more dropped but, due to his lack of clothing, only to his chest and arms, “My Prince, let us get you dressed before you catch yourself a chill. This place is not as tropical as home.” She would of course be careful not to touch his skin, warm as he was she was equally chill, the day had started off well enough but she had yet to regain her heat due to her wash earlier. “My Prince did you sleep well? Once you have eaten shall I fetch you your wash bowl?” So many things one had to remember as servant to the Prince, the most urgent on her list after the morning routine however would be making sure he got an audience with General Barka, surely the man would not ignore the Prince a second time.