Snows covers miles of burnt buildings. Corpses of slain soldiers and starving serfs are preserved under the ice. The many homeless huddle in public houses, live under the generosity of their neighbors, or freeze to death in Waiting Season cold. Between these sights most pitiful are nothing but the signs of war being covered by a snowfall that obscures all but the vision of hawks.

Three annums aft, a great host of men from the Southwestern Isles, those rich tropics owned by the merchant-princes they call Bogans, landed in the Crownlands. Their fleet were far too numerous to be opposed by one lord, and none wished to sacrifice their own fleets in such a risky battle.

Though angered, the Overlord Balthazar cast no blame, and issued the call to arms among all the Lords and Ladies of the land to raise their levies and meet the Host. No man truly loves their suzerain, but Balthazar was perhaps the most widely-agreeable Overlord Lundland had seen since Aella. Thus did all vassals of the realm answer his call, to meet the host.

Many a glorious and victorious battle ensued, earning the battered kingdom much foreign praise, and proving perhaps that the kingdom were not so hopeless as were thought.

During one battle, what was left of the host were running in fright of the Lundish forces. Overlord Balthazar, who commanded in person, were shot in the arm by a fleeing islander’s crossbow. He fell from his horse, and died from the loss of sanguine humour.

The Lords saw no reason to fight for a dead Overlord, and believing the war to be won anyhow, marched home. But the Host were still 8,000 strong, and the Crownland’s forces had dwindled, as well as their means. Overlord Rone, the eldest son of the land, were crowned the new Overlord, but it helped none. The boy, who all his life had cared only for the appreciation of art of the aesthetic and formally martial, now bore a kingdom on his shoulders. It is said he was stricken with such nerves, that he could not sleep for days err his coronation.

The Crown forces held valiantly, lead by Marshal of the Realm, Uthred the Mighty, but a fatal mistake were made: the brash Marshal lead his force to Country Castle, whereby the Host were headed, though they had lesser numbers and quality of soldier. The battle were a disaster; Sir Ambrose, the third in line to the throne, were found in a shallow ditch, with throat cut to the bone; Sir Theodore, the first in line, fell off the parapets of Country Castle, and appeared to have drowned in its moat. The Crown force lost most of their number, and fled to the town of Falkwreath, whereby the Host followed, after they pillaged and enslaved in the Country.

The defense of Falkwreath were an equal disaster. Though a solid fortification were prepared, a traitor had opened the town gates for the enemy, who stormed inside. Marshal Uthred were stabbed through the heart with a spear, and many more men perished. Only Sir Constantine, the second-turned-first in the succession’s line, survived, and he turned tail to great fortress of Bolgaz, as the Crown forces should have done from the beginning.

The Host then took all the wealth of Falkwreath and its town, but at great cost in manpower. The Host now had only 2,500 men. Greed beset many of its members, who wished to stay in Lundland, but its commanders insisted they return home with their plunder and slaves. A battle between their forces ensued, and when the dust settled, most of the force returned home, by taking a long route through Mishfarden, while a fragment stayed behind, to live in Lundland as bandits.

After this display of incompetence on the high command, as well as Overlord Rone’s complete inability to make any useful orders, many questioned Rone’s ability to rule. Theodore was a charming man with biting wit, and thus many of the vassals’ favorite successor. Upon his death, the succession officially fell to Sir Constantine, a thin man who rarely said a word, and could seem to calmly take a knife to the temple. He does not assert his claim, nor does anyone assert it for him, as otherwise the next in line would be Sir Theodore’s father, and Rone’s uncle, Sir Ingen, who is certainly more-liked on part of his past deeds and generosity.

But, of all talk of succession that went on at the court of Bolgaz, one major claimant was ignored. Princess Helen Trisch, the eldest daughter of Overlord Balthazar, a red-headed woman of 28 years, the renowned sword-fighter, tactician, and authoritarian, was infuriated. She had outbursts at court, where she would claim that nowhere in the Writs of the Land did it say that the eldest son inherit, but that the eldest child inherit. According to herself, she was the rightful heir to the throne, not Rone, who had only been crowned by tradition.

Many laughed at her claims. Never had there been a female Overlord, and no-one wished to start with one now, or at least not one so hot-tempered as Helen. She did not even have any children; she was married at age 18, widowed at 21, and rejected every offer of marriage hence. Many in House Trisch scoffed at the idea of allowing a woman to rule, but became livid at the possibility that their House might become extinct.

In light of all this outrage, many who otherwise supported Helen stayed quiet. As Sir Ingen had been appointed Marshal of the Realm, he declared a traitor to the throne of the Overlord, and ordered her arrest. However, when they checked her room, she was nowhere to be found, nor anywhere in Bolgaz was there a trace of her. The only clue was her missing horse; a jet-black stallion, gone from the fortress stables.

At the news of her disappearance, Marshal Ingen let the lords of realm be aware of a 10,000 bulli bounty on her head, payable to any who bring the Princess back alive. At hearing of her escape, Rone now seems strangely obsessed with locating his sister, though made no orders to do anything that would lead to her capture, instead constantly asking those around him of her whereabouts. This has only increased everyone’s doubt of Rone’s mental capacity.

Thus is the landscape of Bolgaz’s court.

Outside, Waiting winds howl. . .

---

It is now the Waiting Season, AU 107

House Harvestar

Kaldur Fief
It was a cold night. Lord Torak Harvestar didn't mind - cold was a regular visitor to the Kingdom of Kaldur, due to its location in the far east, a long way away from the coast. The ancestral castle he was living in had been built over natural hot pools of water, which filled the castle with steam and heat. They didn't need baths in the castle, as they could clean themselves and relax in the hot pools instead. It was a pleasant feeling, and Torak had banned his children from using them too often, lest it made them weak. As he was thinking of his children, one of them knocked on the door to his study. In walked Torak's eldest son and heir Thorn, followed by Torak's ward Detlan. Detlan's father had been a hedge knight slain in battle. Torak had not asked for him to serve him, but he had anyway, and when a giant crushed his skull in with a club, Torak had felt obliged to take his son in. Two years younger than Thorn, Detlan idolised him and trailed after him wherever he went, when he wasn't busy mooning over Torak's daughter Renn, that was. Torak stared at his son and asked him what the matter was.

"Have you heard?" asked Thorn. "Princess Helen has disappeared! Fled the Crownlands, it is said. There is a bounty on her head."

"Yes, I heard. Nothing to do with us,however, so don't concern yourself with it."

"But she might come here! We should send men out to try and look for her."

Torak fixed his gaze on his son. "We are quite far from the Crownlands, and our Kingdom does not share a border with it. It is a very slim chance that Helen will make her way to our cold lands. But you may be right. I will send word to Lord Eadric Summer to keep an eye out for her."

Thorn glared back. "That won't be enough! We need to find her! If we catch her and bring her back, it will prove our loyalty to the Overlord," he replied angrily. "The Lord knows we need to!"

Torak was unsurprised by the sudden heat in his son's voice. He had made these complaints before. "This is about the battle with the Bogans when Balthazar, may he rest in peace, was slain, isn't it?"

"Why did you run?" Thorn yelled. "You should have stayed and fought!"

"The war was over. How was I supposed to know that without Balthazar, the Crownland forces would be so incompetent? Besides, I was not the first lord to return home."

"You were near enough to first!" Barely containing his anger, Thorn's eyes darted around the room. They fixed on the round shield on the wall, embossed with the symbol of House Harvestar, a teal fox. "You certainly lived up to our symbol, didn't you father? A fox, always running away, always sneaking and conniving, always trying to do what suits you best rather than what is right. Look at the other houses, at our neighbours. House Griffiths has a wild unicorn, House Osgar a wolf. They must make fun of us, I know it."

Torak was now angry as well. He pointed a finger at a sword mounted horizontally on the wall. It was a huge ugly blade, straight edged, far larger than even a Mishfarden greatsword. "Look at that blade. That was taken from the dead hands of Keg the Giant King, all those years ago when he burned his way through our lands, trying to carve out a kingdom for himself, and thousands of good men died to stop him. There were no Griffith unicorns then, boy, nor any Osgar wolves. Even our vassals could not make it in time. No, the fox stood alone against Keg that day, and the giants learnt to fear the name of Harvestar. Remember that before you insult the fox again!"

Flushed, Thorn turned on his heel and strode out of the room, Detlan following close behind. Torak watched him go, before sighing to himself. The boy would have to learn to contain his anger if he was to ever inherit Kaldur. Torak sat at his desk to write out his messages. One would be to Lord Summer, as he had said. Others were to go to Icemark. The giants would come again, Torak knew, and when they did, the town of Giant's Bane would be the target. It was time to better protect it and the vital trade routes it was connected to.

The gaunt boy scanned the world that lay yonder. Winds hit in his face akin to frosted punches sent by winter. Small black huts and houses dotted the landscape, the sea swung with its' white, creamy waves. His mare whinnied and shied as several men followed, unmounted. Men of The Shore. Back then, they were corsairs. It was long then, now they are soldiers who patrol and arrest in Sullen Falls. Domund grunted, looking to them. Big, cruel axes hung from their belts, a buckler on their backs. Most were dressed in furs. It was quite cold, understandable. He knew they were bored to the bone. Nothing quite to do in their cold villages and hamlets, stay with your family, or fuck cheap whores. There wasn't even quite enough whores, and surely their wives were ugly. The first man was older than him, most were. A small, brown goatee barely sat on his chin, or several of them, at that. His face was ragged, a small scar on his cheek. He's lost an ear to blizzard, it seemed, and pox ravaged his face. 'M'lord, you called?' The man inquired, clutching his furs as snowflakes bit at him and winds howled, near almost like wolves.

'Do they call you Bofford?'
'Aye, that is me name.'
'Very well. I have an order. Groups of thirty or so men will patrol the region.'
'Will do, m'lord.'
'Oh, and this.' Domund's hand snaked down his rucksack. He threw a head to Bofford, blood painting the snow.

The man nodded. Domund cantered his horse down the field, then trotted over, taking a sharp turn, and off onto the road. Several of his bodyguards quickly followed on their handsome jet black stalllions. They exchanged several small words, then rode in utter silence. He remembered the time he was proud, proud of his swordsmanship, of his worth. Proud to have surpassed Vlad in something. From then, Vlad was known to make every a servant girl a whore and Domund to make every bandit a corpse. Slaughterman was the nickname. Killed whole villages, dipped babes in tar and threw them in a hearth. The babekiller, the rapist. An enemy worthy to be despised and loathed, and never was there such a finer swordsman that Domund hadn't met. It was three years ago had he seen the Slaughterman cut a man in two, and ominously advance on him. Domund was only fourteen, milk hadn't dried on his lips when his song began. A song of steel, steel scraping against steel. It was then that Domund made a riposte that cut open his opponent's throat and blood had began to flow free. It was spring back then, and the blood ran with the streams. Even Vlad's smug smile had gone when the news arrived.

He found that he was half dreaming. 'M'LORD, ORGULES.' One of his companions raised his voice, sending Domund right into the present. They had crossed the streets, hastily making their way through to the manor.

At Castle Diratania

It was cold. Of course it was cold, it was fitting for the season. Not a cold that killed man and child alike just by being there – Fiona remembers her mother speaking of such winters – but a pleasant cold. Snow fell, and Fiona remembers how she loved to play around with it. Sure, she got in trouble whenever she assaulted the courtiers with snow balls, but such nonsense was what small children were bound to do.

Lady Fiona sighed, as this so old image faded away. She turned around.

"Yes?"

There stood Garret, member of House Siebert. More or less insignificant, but nobility nonetheless. And even more, Garret was a very good steward, which is a position her father Domnall gave him, possibly eight or seven years, ago. They were close, perhaps closer than most statemen should be, but Garret looked fondly upon Fiona. Perhaps it was seeing her grow up that did it, but eitherway, she did not care for the exact workings in his mind. He was trustworthy, that's enough.

"My Lady, I wish not to sound rude, but I'd prefer if we could converse on the inside."

Fiona looked at him. A single snow flake landed on his face. He understood what she meant.

"We have heard that Princess Helen fled the court of the Overlord."

She raised an eyebrow. Not that she was surprised, given that the atmosphere at the court has been quite charged recently. Ekbarte, her trusted representative, and Fiona have both supported Helen's claim on the throne. Yet they knew that they were in the minority, which meant they had to be became more silent and silent as the dispute became louder, or they both would have risked too much for a stranger's claim on a useless title.

"I see. It is possible that she will arrive here, but she might also avoid any of the Lords of Lundland. Either case, if she is willing to approach us, we will make sure to welcome her.

Then... can we think about further steps."

Garret bowed, murmuring something that sounded like "Yes." and left.

Fiona hoped Helen would not come, though. She had enough problems already.

"Please, would you send for my personal Courtier?" Lord Solterra requested one of his loyal servants near him. All of these technical details of Lordship had confused him at times, all the little details and reasoning, but he felt like he was somehow... right for it. But also right in fighting.... The servant nodded and walked in a fast pace to find Solterra's personal Courtier. "You... I... really should start remembering your names." The other Servant made a grin, "It's alright my Lord, you rule over thousands, it's expected to be too many names for one person. I'm Johnathon," the man smiled, giving a slight bow. "No no, that won't do, Johnathon. You're a servant, not a slave. I consider them different. I mean, I pay you, right? I don't lash you." They both started to laugh until Solterra started to get quiet, signalling Johnathon to always stop. "May I call you John? I have a request." Johnathon looked over at Solterra and gave a subtle nod, "Whatever you wish ser, and what is your request?" "I'd like you to run a bath for me, all these taxes have been a pain and I haven't exactly woken up yet. I always have my baths in the morning, but my Courtier who usually does it is out attending the Court now, so I've been busy ever since the conflicts started." "Yes ser, I understand. Perhaps my Lord could hire some more Courtiers? Heh. I'll get right on your bath." "Thank you." John gave a small bow out of respect in leaving his Lords presence and turning to walk towards the Lords Bathing room.

The other servant walked in with a smile and a cute face, bowing and presenting the new personal Courtier. "I have returned my Lord, I have fetched your new Courtier." "Ah, good! Thank you, could you please get me some Cider? I hate to keep throwing you places." "Oh it's no trouble my Lord, I am sure to give you and your Courtier some time alone." Just as John did, the other servant gave a bow of respect and left the room.

The newly hired Courtier leaned forward, like a more respectful bow. "Greetings my Lord, you have requested my presence?" "Yes," Solterra reaches for a sealed letter that had an official seal of the Kingdom of Therral. It also had a small blue ribbon attached to it. He also grabbed another sealed letter, which also had the official seal, but no ribbon; handing them both to the Courtier who willingly accepted them. "I'd like you to go to my Courtier who now resides in the Court. It is his place as he fits best there, but you will relieve him until his quest is complete. Tell him he needs to personally take the ribboned letter to the Lands of House Bloodsun, and deliver it with the utmost respect to the Lady that resides in ruling there. If he passes through the Kingdom of Pelataria, he needs to give the other letter to an official soldier or other representative closest to the Lord in that Kingdom. Don't worry, he already knows how to stay alive and keep himself safe during the travel. I just hope he doesn't put a dent in my treasury in doing so." The Courtier nods as he listens intently, "I have purchased a carriage and two horses for the journey. They aren't great horses, partially trained, but they should be good enough leisure for the long road ahead. The Carriage does have our Crest, we've no need to hide. Two soldiers will accompany you and no more. once you take my old friends seat in court, the two soldiers and the Carriage will be transferred to him. We need a stable ground for the future, you understand this?" "Yes my Lord, I will get these messages to your Courtier at the Court."

Solterra gave the smallest and slowest nod as he eyed the new Courtier for a moment. "...Is something wrong, my Lord?" Solterra shook his head, "No, but something is wrong with me." He said abruptly as he stood from his chair and patted the mans shoulder. "I just barked orders at you and I don't know your name. Well, give it, hah hah." "Yes my Lord! Dorian Bosler, I am honored to personally meet you." Solterra raised his head and then quickly brought it back down. "Good, it's nice to meet you as well Dorian. Now, one more thing, before you leave." Solterra reached back to the table which had a parchment of construction plans and military orders, among other things; handing it to Dorian. "Make sure these are carried out before your leave. Now, good luck." "Thank you for the opportunity, my Lord."

As the Courtier makes a hasty leave to get everything done as soon as possible, the servant from before, John, returns with a towel on his arm and Solterra looks up. "My Lord, your bath is ready." "Ah, good. Thank you John. That was quick, I'll have to remember to let you have a dip one day as well." "The pleasure is mine, ser."

The dimly lit hall was much a narrow one. Small candles stood on shelves and tables, torches in the back. Small doors to the sides. Vlad finished enjoying another stupid young maiden, or she was, some time ago. Chuckling at the thought, he slipped out the room. He felt her grasping his sleeve. 'Oh, m'lord, I love you-' He tugged away, brushing off the dust on his collar. 'I've had you so much a time you're pregnant. Not many women enjoy the honor to bear a bastard from a Bloodsun.' He smiled, her eyes widening. He brushed her hair, spinning on his heel and disappearing in the fortress.

Dyana her name, she was a sweet and willing girl - Vlad liked her, she was perhaps one of the most lovely ones left in the manor of Crymson Streams. Most others went with his mother to Lady's Scythe, another permanent residence of Lady Olga. He was just by the hearth when the doors swung open. He turned. 'Ah, Dom. Not another head in your bag there? Or a present to your older brother?' Domund grimaced, Vlad grinned. The latter was clearly enjoying his supremacy in the court. Vlad was a skillful orator, and a seducer. But he feared Domund was much stronger if he ever fought him. Domund had animalistic instincts that made him survive in battle, something Vlad has lost and never recovered. Although Vlad was, by no means, feeble in terms of swordsmanship and fighting. He was trained in fighting with a sabre and a lance, and he was skilled at bows and crossbows. He also rode faster than anybody. He was also handsome. He lost himself in finding his traits and advantages against his brother he didn't even notice he was already gone from his sight.

*

She blew the dust off the cover, and moved the candle over to see the contents. It was a fairly old tome, taken from the library of her grandfather's chambers, most of the paper was yellow like piss and many of the writing was too old to be properly read. She took some time to decipher the writing, still invested into finding out the contents of it. The insides were very uninteresting, to put it lightly. Something about the Bogan marriage traditions. She despised the Bogans with all her heart, for now she had to summon the two of her vassals after they've murdered the Overlord and sent Lundland into turmoil. It was all of Rone, too. The pup was bathed in luxury and sedated by luxury, now all of the overlord's crown beared down on his small, rotten head and it seemed it crushed under its' weight. A shame that Theodore died, he had potential. Now who? Constantine? He seldom spoke, and seldom did anything of note. Now that, it brought her mind to Helen, she had some sympathy for the woman. Had he sympathy for House Trisch? No.

She remembered her history, and her house fought against Trisch in their conquest, they did along with House Zollern, and House Dunsch, and House Taxi. Only House Tallboat switched sides as soon as Trisch was upon them and stabbed all and every one in the backs. Taxi and Dunsch fell and surrendered near instant. They launched an attack on Zollern, but drowned in the swamps, although it mattered not as they surrendered. Then Tallboat took near all of Bloodsun's fiefs when they fought hard and fierce. They bent the knee, but forget did not. And Bloodsun repaid Tallboat with the same treachery, same destruction, same revenge. Same coin. She blew out the candles and slept, waiting for the response of her vassals on the morrow.

Cole Castle, Pelataria
Morning
4th Day of the new Annum

The first rays of light shone through the glass pane windows placed sparingly around the meeting chamber. The room itself had a spartan appearance, contrary to the rest of the castle, with a large rectangular hardwood table dominating the center. Above, opposite the windows, a large black shield adorned with a lone stationary falcon sat mounted on the stone wall. The crest of House Cole, complete with gold trim around the edge. The chamber was in one of the oldest sections of the castle, and reflected the modest personality of one of the first Lords of the fief. Lord William Cole, long since dead and gone, had once awoken every morning before first light along with his most trusted advisors to go over the matters of the day. William was a man of routine; a simple Lord of action who spoke only when to order, and rarely made time for leisure. And yet, his rule efficiently navigated Pelataria through it's early stages, to where it is today.

But on that morning it was not William who sat at the head of the table, but rather his descendant, Antony. The newest Lord Cole was next to nothing like his ancestor, but in the spirit of tradition had kept the custom of a first light meeting - simply on a less frequent basis. On the first of every month, Antony would come to the eastern wing of his Castle while the moon was still high in the sky, to be briefed by his circle. However this time, he had been away to monitor troop drills and the state of his fief, and had not been around to conduct the meeting on the 1st. Instead, three days later, the Lord found himself in the chamber.

Antony was a man of slightly greater than average stature, with a shoulder-length mane of dirty blonde hair and eyes of obsidian black. He was in good shape, keeping himself fairly active throughout the day, but Antony was by no means a fighter. No, he knew how to handle a sword, but his skills were best suited leading the troops from behind; or, even better, negotiating so as to avoid war altogether. Yes, despite the rich history of Vetus Patriæ - the old country, the fief of Pelataria - Antony knew quite well that he ruled over one of the smallest collection of fiefs in Lundland. Smaller, even, than the holdings of Lord Aldran, one of his own Vassals. As a result, he adopted a diplomatic approach quite early in his reign. An approach which had suited him quite well as of late.

To Lord Cole's left sat his advisor and friend, Frederick Nevin, a shorter, gray, severe-looking man thirteen years his senior. Frederick knew the affairs of the country and the distant lands better than most in Cole's lands, and was an asset to the Lord when it came to both foreign and domestic affairs. Beside Nevin, the Commander of Pelataria's Guard sat stroking his stubble absently. Jonah Peterus was only slightly younger than Lord Cole, but had distinguished himself early in his life as an expert warrior and infantry commander. To Jonah's immediate left, John Cardoza, the young Naval prodigy recently named Admiral of the Pelatarian Fleets. Across the table sat Gerard Dupree, the liaison between Pelataria and Lord Aldran's fiefs to the East. A vacant spot sat undisturbed beside Dupree, belonging to Veronica Coutier, The liaison for Lord Hastings. Veronica had been feeling quite ill, and thus excused herself from the day's meeting. Finally, ever present beside Antony was his wife Josephine - a beautiful redhead seven years the Lord's junior, with large, soft brown eyes, yet a wit and resolve to match or exceed that of her husband's. All had gathered to prepare Cole's lands for the month ahead.

Nevin cleared his throat, wanting to begin the meeting with his report. Antony nodded, and shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. Nevin liked to talk, and it wasn't unheard of for his reports to last well into the morning. This time, however, he cut straight to the point.
"Word came from the East," he began, he usual slow drawl more rushed now. "Princess Helen, the Overlord's older sister, has fled Trischland. Apparently there is a bounty on her head."
"How much?" Josephine asked, her eyes flicking from Nevin to her husband, briefly, and then back.
"Ten thousand bulli."
Antony nodded, drumming his fingers absently on the wood of the table. Silence dominated the room for about thirty seconds, resonating through the stone chamber almost louder than if someone had spoken. Finally, Nevin cut in. "What shall we do, my Lord?"
"Nothing." He replied, quite quickly, and stopped the drumming when his words began. "Pelataria is too far from Trischland. Perhaps the Princess will head to the West, perhaps not. Regardless, some other Lord will likely discover her before then."
Josephine nodded, along with Nevin, before posing another question. "And if she happens to evade the others and arrive here, Antony?"
The Lord looked at his wife, and gave a conspiratorial smile. "Then we harbor her. Pelataria has had a long, long history. And we have always been loyal to our Overlord. Helen is the oldest, therefore she is entitled to claim the throne. My allegiance is with her, if only because she is the only option of true worth. Overlord Rone is a child, and a deranged one at that. And Contantine.. Why, there may be a brilliant leader in him somewhere, but he certainly hasn't shown it."
"Yes, my Lord, but Helen isn't exactly the most popular candidate. Backing her could be dangerous," Nevin pointed out.
"If Rone or Constantine hold the throne, there soon won't be an Overlord to swear fealty to. They cannot handle the harsh realities of that position. Either Helen claims the throne, or we must prepare Pelataria for existence after a unified Lundland."
The circle all nodded, with varying levels of true agreement. Antony was a man of his word - but he was also an opportunist, two qualities which could only be juggled by the most cunning of individuals. But whatever he lacked in morality - according to the standards of some, that is - he made up for in results, which everyone sitting before him appreciated.

Peterus spoke up next, regarding the status of Pelataria's army.
"Lord Cole, as you know it has been the tradition of Pelataria to maintain a standing army of at least one thousand men at all times. It has been this way since we were the frontier - what we lacked in size we made up for in training and preparedness."
"Yes, I am aware of our customs Jonah."
"Well, as you know, we will be short of crops this annum. Should we at least consider pulling some of the troops away from the grounds and back to their farms?"
Cole was quick to shake his head. "I have the food situation taken care of. Money has been sent to Jorvik, to the North, and a shipment of food should be arriving shortly. As for our army.. Our tradition still stands. Peterus, give orders to resume training at the grounds for both our Bowmen, and the Legionaries. Also, instruct the Riders to patrol along our trade routes."
"Yes, m'Lord."

Cole then turned his attention to Cardoza. The Admiral was a striking man, right in the prime of his youth. His shaggy blonde hair was cut much shorter than Lord Cole's, coming down to his forehead, and hazel green eyes shone with intelligence. His appointment to Admiral was sharply criticized by more seasoned naval officers, but Lord Cole could not simply disregard the young man's talent.
"John, I want half of our naval forces patrolling on trade routes. Take ten great galleys and a war galley, and send them along the northern route to Ironstone Island. I want the merchants heading from Palma and Calisii to the Island protected; be sure to notify House Strongheart that our intentions are peaceful and mutually beneficial."
"Sir," Cardoza began. "Do you want the Marines aboard for the duration?"
"Yes. Inform them to stop by Kingston on their way up the route and assign one hundred Marines per great gallley." Cardoza nodded.

Lord Cole stood, and glanced briefly at the sun peeking through the windows. The day had started, truly. And their business here had mostly concluded. Antony and Josephine left the meeting, signaling its official adjournment, and made their way from the east wing to the front battlements. Ahead of them, the city of Palma shone in all its glory. Though not the largest town in Lundland, the city was certainly among the most prosperous. Later in the day, the Lord had plans to meet with Palma's head architect, who would be receiving the bulk of Pelataria's treasury to put toward a massive project. Cole put his arm around Josephine, as a gust of morning sea breeze flew over the castle. The day was beginning, and the world was changing. Cole would not allow himself to be left behind.

Dread's Fist

Dread walks up to to the gated door to the current Lord's estate, glancing at the guards as he smirks and nudges his soldier beside him; the one he wanted to travel with him. "Hey, guys, think we could see your Lord? I wanna offer him some War Boats for a shiny copper.... I'm serious, tell him I'd like to sell him all of them for a very cheap price."

(Next Merc Post could/should be in collab with Ashgan)

The snow burden Lundland bore slowly melts away. Where there was once dry, dead grass, there is now bright green fields. The dead flora have been reborn, and fauna multiply, feasting on the fruit of trees and bushes. Birds return from Mishfarden and beyond, to sing new songs in their old homes.

Humans leave their nests, and find welcome, warm suprise from a sun so long obscured, which now shines down on them, as if God himself were smiling at his subjects. The people return to the fields, to begin working again. The Waiting Season left much work undone, and the Working Season, true to its name, promises a great deal more work ahead. The fields hum with activity of all sorts, as people work to plough, tread, sew, build, and repair. In the markets of towns, shopkeepers announce their fresh wares, while housewives and street urchins scurry about streets.

But, separate from all that is natural, the Lords of the land act as though nothing has changed. They hunt, feast. scheme, order, and kill with the same frequency as ever.

The court of Bolgaz might have appeared quiet to the uneducated eye. But the servants see the representatives exchange notes in empty hallways, speak words behind closed doors, and whisper close to each other's ears at the dining hall.

Rone strangled a vixen today. He fell asleep with its tail hung over his bed.

---

It is now the Working Season, AU 107

OOC: This is a collaboration with Flooby! It was a very nice one. :-)

Quietly moving the blade of the scissor, she slid off the last of her fingernails. She had no time to play the mandolin anymore, and had no reason to keep her nails looking almost if she were a witch. She broke the seal and looked in the contents. Lord Gowan apologises and says he cannot come, on reasons of advanced age. Adequate. Although she was intrigued to learn he called Gabriel his son. Gabriel is his grandson. Truly, he is old. She thought, with a hue of sadness to her thoughts. Then came the Dunsch-Taxi reply. Aelfryd shall come, in a week or so. She noticed the trained messenger bird came a tad late, aye, it is hard to navigate in such a land. Bogs, meadows, and the winter in the midst of all. Then an unexpected one. Lord Solterra had never quite interested her, save for the romantic voyages and manly obstacles he had ventured through with his sister. She wondered if it was exaggerated. He sent a jester to discuss an alliance. This 'Flooby Badoop' had quite a swagger, in an unimpressive way.

The guests, both invited, and uninvited had arrived.

Gabriel's arrival was gallant, although she was a little unhappy to see a gratuitous amount of armed guards. It was a neccessant evil, she reckoned. Lord Aelfryd came much more festive, colorfully. He trusts me, she thought. It was good to know. And then came the Flooby Badoop. And in an instant he arrived, he decided to entertain her humorless, silent servants. Some had curved their mouths in an odd smiles, but did not dance, nor sing. She was especially amused to read about all the pleasures that Orgules has to offer. Orgules was a big city, a prospering city, a wealthy city. Yet it was gray, and seldom would anyone find delight in their dim, foggy streets and alleyways. She looked outside the door.

Two crowcapes stood, leaning on their large, cruel longswords. 'Sir Colbers, inside.' The giant of a man grunted, nodding, and as soon as he was inside, he had bowed deeply. She inspected him. He was, truly, a big man. Heavily muscled, his plate armor shone. His eyes were gray, unflinching, intimidating, but respectful. A bone showed on his jaw, sharp cheekbones and a heavy brow, a nose large and hooked. 'Sir Colbers. Have you heard Lord Commander Achamith had been unmounted in a tourney?' The huge man looked up. 'M'lady, 'Tis the one he was crippled in?' She merely nodded. 'A cripple cannot be a Crowcape, it is in your codex. Achamith was handsomely rewarded and has now a land with his own peasants to live in. From now on, you are Lord Commander.' He kneeled, and murmured an oath of fealty and service, to death and beyond. This one was impressive. He kept his oath till the end, it was known. He was unbuyable, and she valued him. 'Find a room for the envoy from Therral. Bring Gabriel Zollern and Lord Aelfryd in our audience chamber.' He once more bowed, and left the room, now proud and respectful, his cape swaying behind with a giant crow crudely painted on it.

Two men came in, and nodded, saying courtesies and bowing. She did, too. The room was a square one, with narrow windows. She sat down on a triangular, oaken table.

'My lords, it is time we finally discuss the perspectives and advantages of our situation. Overlord Balthazar is dead, and the current Overlord is still a child. He cannot bear the weight of the crown, and rumors even say his caretaker smacks him without any reason. To protect our lands, it is my idea to ally with House Wolff and House Cole. Now, you may speak your opinions and suggestions, gentlemen.' She struck the most pretty smile she had, and oh, it is a very pretty smile. "Hold on, my lady," Aelfryd started. He was a man in his 50s, something most people do not live past. He was dressed in a long, velvet garb, with a royal blue overcoat, tied by gold trimming over a silk shirt. He wore baggy pants, for the weather was harsh, and pointed black leather boots. A poofed-up cap adorned his head. He sat with his legs crossed, and though he were old, he spoke quite precisely, and without hesitation. "You say Rone's weakness is a problem? We have seen nothing but benefit from his lack of sense. When Balthazar was in power, we needed to cower before him, for fear that he would act in away to expand his authority. As it is now, our lordship has the ability to mint its own currency, maintain an unlimited standing army, war with whom we please, or for whatever reason, make what treaties we will, and act as the sovereigns we are! Long may he live, as I am concerned."

"And with regards to the aforementioned alliances," he continued, "I agree with allying ourselves to House Cole, for their naval protection would be much enjoyed, but to House Wolff? Their domain is vast, and they have many potential enemies.And aside from that, my closest relations are married to the heirs of their vassals Houses, and we would have everything to gain by opposing them."

"You mean you would have everything to gain," chimed Gabriel. He was a man who carved an impressive figure: he stood nearly six feet tall, and had the broad shoulders and thick upper body of a sculpture. His skin was very pale, and his eyes were sunken, but he had a very strong, sharp jaw, and curly black hair, which made him darkly handsome to some women. He was still wearing the armour of the the road, though he were unarmed. "I mean no insult, but you can't say that and think we'll go along with it. As is stands, your grandsons will inherit three houses, but we all know you've tried, and failed, to marry well into House Wolff. Hostile relations on our part could only further your own goals of holding land in Attolia."

Gabriel turned to you. "My lady, I think an alliance with House Wolff would be most wise. Their military strength at land will help us guard our borders, and their strength at sea, combined with that of Lord Cole's, will help keep the coastline trade alive and prosperous."

"Prosperous for them!" cried Aelfryd. "You think me such a schemer! I should take that for the insult it is. House Wolff has a great deal of indefensible land, most of it along the coastline. If we were to secure an alliance with House Cole and his vassals, then House Wolff's position would be mightily weakened. As is stands, we have both his vassals against him through bonds of marriage by my House. If we were to secure assurances from other Houses not to intervene, their conquest would be a jaunt in the gardens!" She frowned deeply with Lord Aelfryd's outbursts. It was evident now that while securing solid power amongst vassals of several great houses, he was narrowminded, and hellbent on achieving ill for House Wolff. She had, overall, sided with Gabriel on this matter. She needed allies, Cole, Behringer, and Wolff. "Hold on, my lord." She repeated Aelfryd's words, giving a gentle chuckle, before continuing. "Have I ever spoke Rone's weakness is a problem? I do not recall, but anyhow, I wish trust and cooperation with our neighbors, we do not need a war on our hands, and lands, if it turns awry. You have reasoning in your plans, and nor do I have love for House Trisch, it is truly an opportunity. But I side with Gabriel, Attolia is to be our ally. However, I am going to speak with you after this, Lord Aelfryd."

She looked outside the door to a Crowcape. "Sir Rochamail, bring the Behringer envoy, please." The crowcape nodded, leaving the hallway, and soon coming back with the courtier. "This is the one you've heard about. You may speak of the alliance now, Flooby." The courtier stumbled in alongside the crowcape. It is obvious by his clumsy movements, red nose, and glazed, droopy eyes, that he is already intoxicated to some degree.

"The most beautious Lady Olga," he reached out and kissed her hand, then bowed deeply. "I've heard so much of you. It is wonderful to finally meet you in person," he said, with a speech that made his drunkeness all the more obvious, "As you've no doubt heard tell, I have come on behalf of my patron, the right honourable Lord Solterra Behringer. His will be that your House and his join in an alliance, alongside that of House Cole. It is his belief that the west of Lundland be unified in its interests, that our defences both at sea and on land be secure, and peace reign in our lands. His terms are that each of our Houses pledges to aid one another in any just conflict for the defence of our lands. He also proposes that no aggressive action be taken between any member of our Houses toward each other, or our interests."

For a drunk man, he seems more than able to express himself and his wishes.

"What shall I tell my Lord, your graciousness?" he continues. "I hope you shant be offended when I say that I mean to return home with your reply with all due haste. I mean, you've a lovely place here, but the people below you are so dull. At least those servants out there. Not a one laughed at my jests!" She let the drunk fool kiss her hand, it was something vital in diplomatic relations, she couldn't express amusement at his incompetence, nor anything of sort. She had to smile, nod, and then think and formulate on what he has said. She couldn't proccess it right there, right in the open, to move her country's destiny. "I am thankful for your offer, but first, let me discuss it with Lord Aelfryd of Dunsch-Taxi, and Gabriel of House Zollern. Such an offer can't have a hasty reply, you understand." She nodded, and the crowcape escorted the fool from the room.

She looked towards the other two men. "Speak of what you think, my lords." Lord Gabriel chuckled to himself. "What Solterra lacks in judgement of character, he seems to make up for in judgement of politics. A unification of western interests could only be to our benefit. I see no reason to align ourselves against House Behringer, anyway. As a matter of fact, it could be to our benefit. If we could offer some sort of mutual protection to our trade interests, like creating a joint fleet to protect the western coastal trade, all the merchant's money would flow into our coffers, instead of the pockets of pirates and raiders."

Lord Aelfryd scoffed. "A joint fleet? You must be joking," he says. "I agree with you partially: allying ourselves to House Behringer could only be to our benefit, but to place trust with a man who sends a fool to discuss diplomacy is folly. Let us ally ourselves to them in word only. There shall be no material promises between us." She had to agree with both. "Once more, I remind you, Lord Aelfryd, of our talk after this, however, in this particular council, I side with Lord Gabriel. Trade and protection shall be the virtue of the west. The council is over, however, I ask Lord Aelfryd to stay for a bit, Good tidings, Lord Gabriel Zollern." As the man nodded and left, she looked over to Aelfryd, and spoke.

After her talk with Lord Aelfryd, she sighed, withdrawing to her chambers. She summoned Sir Colbers. "I have found a man for the empty slot in the Crowcape guard." He looked up, his eyes inquisitive. "The recently knighted Sir Petrock, who has led a dozen peasants armed with hatchets and destroyed a highwaymen's lair, he has proven immense valor." The giant of a man looked outside the window, his face cold, stoic. "Aye, he seems a good choice."

A hooded figure with their face and body hidden ahows up to Lady Olga's fief, requesting entry and stating they have an important message for the Lady. The hooded figure was soon granted entrance along with two peasants that guided the Carriage the figure arrived in. The figure had also been escorted by about ten mercenaries, but they stayed outside, obviously the message was important. As the figure trecked through the fief, they headed toward Lady Olga's manor, arriving at the entrance and requesting entry. The Lady no doubt have been informed about the figure by now. Still, all this time the figure hadn't spoken, the two peasants having been speaking for them.

[Co-Credits go to Flooby, some edits have been made to fit the past-tense narrative]

Lately, Lady Fiona has been plagued by headaches. She sleeps a bit worse as well. One figured it was the harshness of the Waiting Season, but even as snow melted and the warm sun brought life back into the lands of Lundland, Fiona's body continued to protest.

Her husband, Lord Donald, son of Ekbarte of Nicland, was not blind this development. A sigh here, some temple-rubbing there, sometimes she even sat in one of her working chambers and just stared at the wall. Not that she was slacking off, though. No, in fact, it would be more true to say that Fiona tried to be as good to her people as possible. She was not a fool, who believed this state of momentary peace would last for much longer. Eventually, war was bound to came, and then she'd have to be ready to protect Lundland.

However, knowing what you wanted did not mean necessarily that you knew how you would get to that goal. Fiona, in the most private moments in the most private places would admit that she wished someone would just descend from the heavens to tell her what to do. Donald would during these moments try to comfort her, say that she is being a splendid ruler and that he would be there to listen and comfort. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes Fiona could just stare back at her dear Donald, as if he told her that trolls occupied their kitchen.

It was a beautiful day when she received that letter, accompanied by a very special guest. She walked in the courtyard of her manor, watching her little sister Karin play with the child of a servant. A little moment, one of these when she was envious of a child's innocent joy. The lieutenant of her patrol guards appeared with a letter, a horse and a red-haired woman. The horse and the woman belonged together, it said, and the Captain of the patrol guard believed her to be Princess Helen – the woman, not the horse, as it was clarified in ink – and urged Fiona to give her shelter.

Fiona didn't need anyone to tell her that. The woman claimed to be Helen was in a terrible condition, starving and cold and dirty. Fiona ordered her servants to prepare bath, food and a chamber fitting for the rightful Overlord. She waited for a few days, and a part – small and insignificant, but there – of her hoped that this woman would not be Helen.

After several days of staying in the castle, the woman who claimed to be Helen regained her strength. Fiona joined her one day for breakfast in the dining hall. The woman's wet clothes had been exchanged for dry servants garments, which fit her well enough. Upon seeing her more closely, it was hard to deny she is Helen: her hair was a bright orange-red, the colour of a Harvest leaf. She stood a little over six feet tall, and even sitting, her height was still noticeable. Her skin was pale, her face freckled, and her eyes big, bright and blue. Her muscles were also visibly toned, and her shoulders quite broad. She certainly wasn't the kind of woman who saunters about a castle all day.

"My Lady," she said with a full mouth. She quickly swallowed her food, and smiled at Fiona. "Good morning. I'll say it again, a thousand times thank you for letting me stay here. It's been a long Waiting season."

"Indeed, it has."

Lady Fiona began to feel small, between her, her husband - who was already a human boulder - and Lady Helen. Fiona imagined she would be more... petite. An idiotic assumption, perhaps, one a fool would made who never heard of Helen. Eitherway, Helen was healthy again, and that was good enough in itself.

"Lady Helen, I say it again; you are most welcome to stay at my court for as long as you please. Yet I am afraid that we currently have little means of pressing your rightful claim. Certainly, we will try and carefully find out what the other lords of Lundland think, but for the moment, I am afraid that our hands are more or less tied."

"That's just it, my lady, I've wanted to talk to about my claim." She finished the rest of her food by shovelling it into her mouth, before wiping it with a handkerchief. The dining hall of Diritania's castle was smaller than most, but held a table long enough to seat two dozen. Stained glass windows, depicting the Saints and Archangels in their most glorious moments, flanked the table's sides at every few feet, letting a brilliant morning light into the room. One particular light shone on Helen, making the dust of the room visible, like a wispy mist over a lake after a rainstorm.

"I travelled toward your court, because I knew I'd be safest here. You've supported me from the very beginning. The steward, and my caretaker in youth, Aengus Stanric, he arranged to have me in a safehouse. But I'll be damned to hide in some hole like a varlot, while my brother lets all our father's work disappear. The lords of the land have already reclaimed the right to mint their own money, make their own treaties, war with whomever they please, for any reason, and refuse the call to arms!"

Helen looks out the window behind her. Past the image of Saint Sera, the warrior girl who defended Lundland from a Baccan raiding force shortly after Aella's death. Behind the window, serfs could be seen working the keep's private fields. It was a bright, sunny morning, and though they looked exhausted, many were smiling, appearing to make jokes.

"Everything might seem calm now," Helen continued, "But it's only the calm before the storm. If the Lords of Lundland continue to act like the Land doesn't exist, then our enemies will treat us like it doesn't exist. If we cannot meet our enemies as a united force, under a strong Overlord, then we will be doomed at the first sight of an enemy banner."

Helen turned back to Fiona. Her smile had disappeared, and her cool blue eyes focused on Lady Vearin with intensity. "My lady, you have been kind to me thus far, but I must as another favour of you. I need you to talk to the other lords of Lundland. Tell them you have made contact with me. Tell them to support my rightful claim to the throne. It will be no easy task: many of them like Rone's lazy rule. They would let a damned dog wear the crown if it meant they could have all the benefits of their liege's protection, without any responsibilities or duties. But if I am on the throne, all of that will change. For the memory of my father, Balthazar, I will make Lundland as strong as it was under Aella's rule. I will make the title of Overlord as powerful and respected as it should be. I will keep this land safe from the Baccans, Ordained, Bogans, Gaints, Volcanics, and even from itself. And I will make Rone pay for his foolishness."

She paused. Her fist was clenched over her knife, which she was stabbing into the table. She loosened her grip after a moment, but she did not loosen her gaze. "If for no other reason, my lady, help me in the memory of my father. He was a strong, and good man, who cared about everyone in this kingdom, from the highest Lord to the lowest serf. His legacy deserves a better denouement than bleeding to death, and rolling in his grave while his son fails the Land."

Fiona did not back down from Helen's stare. Not out of spite, but because Fiona could not but agree with and believe in Lady Helen's words. She darted hey eyes over to her husband, who stopped chewing as Helen talked, and then to her own hands holding a fork. The truth was that she felt odd. Without doubt, she believed that allowing Rone to stay on the throne will inevitably end into the end of Lundland, the end of Diratania. Yet, since her father Lord Domnall has died tragically just shortly after her mother, Lady Fiona felt a lot of darkness burdening her soul. Any ambition that went beyond "survive for a little bit longer" was deemed as foolish, and bound to fail.

"Lady Helen, there is much truth in your words, but..."

Fiona looked into Helen's energetic eyes again. That was why she felt odd. That certainity of doubt, the endless pessimism; it seemed, as if just the very presence of Lady Helen and her ambitions was enough to be the small ray of light that made a crack in the black wall of hopelessnes around Fiona.

A few seconds passed.

"Actually, no. Helen, you have my word; I shall immediately set myself to writing the letters. I have, we have given up hoping that these lands will ever be healed again, yet seeing you here... seeing you with such might in her words and force in her will. It... I must thank you for this. So much time passed since I have felt such courage in my heart again.”

This is the letter that she has sent to the major lords of Lundland. Feel free to image all the personalized formalities at the head and foot of it

"Tell, what happens when the Bogan dogs are not satisfied anymore by their own land and in their greed set out to bring chaos to Lundland. Tell, what happens when the great volcan erupts and the heathens gather to burn down our villages. Tell, what happens when the Giants direct their wrath and lust against Lundland once more? Tell, what happens when the Ordained Kingdom and the Baccus Empire find peace with each other, and yearn for the blood of Lundland?

The lands of Diratania lie in the core of Lundland, seemingly protected by numerous lands belonging to other lords, to you. Yet, even I know with certainity that with Rone - the false Overlord - our fate is sealed, for we all will be punished for our arrogance and pride by laying dead under the burned ground of our beloved home.

I know, and I can understand, that there is a certain willingness to let this happen. The incompotent rulership of an Overlord who let's his realm suffer brings certain comforts. However, when the inevitable disasters strike, whether they be coming from east or north or south, those who blinded themself and ignored these threats will cry and bleed as their lands fall to chaos. Let us not become those who cry. Let us be the one who sees those who yearn for Lundland's lives and answer them "No". Let us not sit idly by, let us bond together and stand as one mighty realm against all who set foot on Lundland with nothing but malice in their souls.

For that purpose though, do we need a strong Overlord. One who is in herself a symbol of hope and force. Lady Helen, the rightful heir to the throne, the beacon that shall make Lundland great again, as it was during the times of Aella the Great. She is residing at my court, where she has been welcomed gratefully by both noblemen and common folk alike. Here, we will strive to make Lundland strong again.

I hope and beg you to decide swiftly - and to decide to stand on the right side of history: Those of the survivors.

Signed, Queen Fiona"

Cale Tucker said
Dread walks up to to the gated door to the current Lord's estate, glancing at the guards as he smirks and nudges his soldier beside him; the one he wanted to travel with him. "Hey, guys, think we could see your Lord? I wanna offer him some War Boats for a shiny copper.... I'm serious, tell him I'd like to sell him all of them for a very cheap price."(Next Merc Post could/should be in collab with Ashgan)

Moody gray clouds obscured the heavens above, bleeding gentle spring rains upon the earth. While the mountain peaks to the northeast remained densely covered in snow and ice, the gloomy woods that encroach upon the earthen giants seemed to thaw, dressed in a brighter green than in the previous months. A wave of fog rolled down the mountain slopes, washing over the land and engulfing it in a haze of white; even in the midst of noon one could barely see one’s own hands. The inhabitants of Coalfell were no stranger to these phantasmal mists and barely paid any heed to the ghostly veil as they mulled about their daily routine. Cozily tucked in between the elder trees of Blackwood, Almare’s capital was more a hamlet than a city, a rickety amalgamation of about two hundred old wooden houses with most having grown a thick coat of moss over the years. Indeed far from noble, any one of these houses were no more luxurious than that of a common lumberjack. Glistening, wet cobble roads paved the pathways in between the moldy houses, eventually converging towards the elevation where a grand stone manor overlooked the town like a stern father.

Castle Coalfell had been built with haste, and it shows. Originally, it had been little more than a fortified tower which stands to this day as its central keep, but over the decades since it was erected, layer upon layer of added defense had been piled on top and around the spire, eventually forming walls complete with ramparts and corner towers of their own, while the base of the tower was expanded to contain great halls where guests could be received, the royal armory could be stored and the king’s soldiers might rest. Stables had been added to the courtyard where the lord’s best steeds might be kept and taken care of, and beyond the yard’s walls lay the freshly added baileys, the walls of which were still halfway in construction. Craftsmen were eagerly at work in between the scaffolds to further improve their prestigious fiefdom’s infrastructure. Below even this, on the slope leading up from the town to the castle, multiple layers of large, sharpened pikes had been rammed into the soil, making any climb that was not the main road a treacherous labyrinth of spikes that could impale an ox. Castle Coalfell was perhaps not the prettiest of seats for a lord of Lundland, but it was practical and defensible; much like everything in Almare.

The gate to the outer baileys was open so that supplies for the ongoing constructions could flow freely, but a pair of guards sat lazily by the side, to keep an eye on unwanted guests. Wet, cold, and blinded by the dense fog as they were, a bottle of fine cider was all that kept the two at their post and in high spirits. If the morning had been any indication, it would have seemed like that bottle was to be their only company until the shift’s end, until a pair of unusually well armed fellows ascended the trodden, muddy path towards them.

“Just what we needed,” Cynbel muttered under his breath, wiping his mouth from his last swig as he rose from the stool he had been sitting on for the last five hours. His arse sure felt sore.

“Halt there, stranger,” the guardsman called out to the approaching duo, holding out his left palm while his right held firmly onto a well-crafted spear, “thou dost approach the castle of lord Ardobert Griffiths, sovereign of Almare. State thine business.”

“Hey, guys,“ the leader-looking type of the two smugly answered with a smirk, “think we could see your lord? I wanna offer him some war boats for a shiny copper... I'm serious, tell him I'd like to sell him all of them for a very cheap price.”

The Almaric watchmen glanced at each other for a moment, as if seeking the advice of the other. Eventually Baglen, who had not spoken up to this point, shrugged and Cynbel returned his attention to the mercenaries.

“Just who in the Goddess’s name are ye’? Dost thou think thou canst simply walk up to the lord of a kingdom and haggle a price for thine boats as if he were a common fisherman?”

“Cynbel,” Baglen intervened, “I dost think they’re from the mercenaries who didst land in Mortham earlier this month. Methinks we ought to at least inform the lord’s court of this here offer.”

“Is that so?” Cynbel skeptically answered, eyeing the mercenaries with distrust, “Perhaps thou art right. Very well, good sirs, if thou wouldst share thine names, we shall send word to the lord. In a few days at most, thou shalt receive an answer to thine offer. Art we agreed?”

(Dread's Fist)

Dread shook his head, "War boats. These are not boats for carrying nets and ice. You can put war machines on them. And I have enough to launch your men into anyones front door, well, actually... I guess that'd be the back door... but that isn't the point. We came from the South, all the way around those harsh waters and I need to pay my men, and the ships take a hefty repair cost, too. I can't do both without a job for my guys. You don't seem to realize just what kind of a price we're talking. I am talking maybe even a third of the Bullis it takes to construct those beasts." Dread crosses his arms and sighs, raising an eyebrow. "Let's get this over with; this is one of my men," he continued as the soldier gave a boastful grin, "it'd take you ten soldiers just to smack him, we don't have just any skirmisher follow us, these men could take down a Giant... if... given the time... and they didn't get too fatigued, maybe. I'm Dread, leader of Dread's Fist. Now, formalities are over. Do you want an army of siege ships ready to demolish walls or are we gonna have to find a little village to prey on? My men are already outside your castle by my order, consider it a gesture of goodwill, as in... I played nice and told my guys not to have an advantage with being within the walls. Let's just talk to the guy. He'd be giving my men their pay and he'd be getting warships, it's a win win. Oh and... he stays with me." He pointed at his soldier friend by raising his arm upwards by the elbow and pointing with the thumb. Even with the obscure dialect (ignoring the speech used), it truly sounded less insulting and more, 'this will benefit everyone... the sooner the better.'

“I am talking maybe even a third of the Bullis it takes to construct those beasts,” the mercenary insists, as if the poor watchman had any say in the matter.

“I’d better hope they’re as cheap as thou dost claim, man, thou art trying to sell broken boats! ‘Sides, I didst already assure you that the lord will be informed. What more dost thou want?”

Not relenting, the mercenary crossed his arms, manifesting an apparent shift in his attitude.

“Let's get this over with; this is one of my men,” he says with pride, before boasting how it would take ten Almarics to best him. A laughable claim all things considered; the man was lucky that neither of the two were clansmen, or his carcass just might have been fashioned into a bone totem by the eve’. Disturbingly, that was the least offensive thing the man said – he went on to outright threaten Almare, insinuating that if their offer were declined, they would pillage the countryside or attack Coalfell outright. Just how full of himself was this man?

“Hast thou lost thine senses, man?!” Cynbel exclaimed, clearly upset, “Thou art enjoying the hospitality of Almare, yet thou dost see fit to threaten the kingdom with pillage and battle! Is this thine thanks? We will relay your deal to the lord as agreed upon, and thou wilst hear in time, but thou art not crossing over this threshold while I or any Almaric still draw breath! Now, begone!”

(OOC: You’ll receive a written reply from Ardobert, presuming that the situation does not get more out of hand than it did; I’ll have to take a look at your ships again, but I’m probably going to buy them actually since I don’t have any whatsoever.)

(Dread's Fist)

Shook his head again slightly silly-like, "Nope, not threatening, I was just saying we'll stand and wait. I don't hand out offers and let them sink in for a week. I do business face to face." He said as he patted the soldier on the back, "I just have this guy in case things go bad and I can escape. Besides, my soldiers couldn't all fit in a tiny manor like this. At least let us sit in a study or something while we wait? Don't you think it would be rude to just leave us here at the door? Or... would you rather a bunch of gruff and hardy men who smell of liquor and blood not standing at the front door?" Both Dread and the soldier leered into the guardsman for an answer.

Grindan Osgar was a man focused on the affairs of his own kingdom; in spite of this, he was not entirely blind to the events that had transpired in Bolgaz. He'd known of Helen's departure from the court, and had been determined to capture the Princess himself. He'd sent Aaldorenfeald's cavalry units, the Feriendema, to patrol Aaldreonfeald's fiefs bordering the Overlord's lands. They didn't find the wayward Princess; they found someone entirely more surprising. The man was escorted back to Aaldorenfeald's capital fief, Rytael, and Osgar saw him: Sir Theodore Trisch, traditional first in line to the succession of House Trisch. There was no mistaking who he was: Grindan had fought with this man in the battles against the Bogan host. Still clad in his armour, which had rusted, he and his horse looked emaciated, pale, and exhausted from travelling in the Waiting Season cold. He could barely make a coherent sentence. Grindan had decided to allow the man some rest before he inquired as to his lack of rigor mortis.

When Grindan entered the guest room that day, he found Theodore looking much healthier. His armour and wet clothes had been replaced with simple, but comfortable servant's garments. Despite being emaciated, he was still a very fit man of 25, and didn't look too much weaker than when he'd last saw him.

He nodded in Grindan's direction. "So, I have you to thank for a feather bed? I suppose it's better than the dungeon. I don't recommend high-balling my ransom: Rone's council would only pay it if it were cheaper than hiring an assassin."

Grindan called the nearby guards out of the room and further down the hall, stepped closer into Theodore's temporary quarters and closed the door behind him. He grunted at Thedore's joke and set his right hand leisurely on the hilt of his blade. He had the look that a peasant might have upon looking at a day's worth of labour to be done—solemn, but unyielding. His eyes did not make direct contact with Theodore's, the King of the Aaldoren examining the young heir to Lundland only in his periphery. When he spoke, he uttered the Overlord's name with a measure of venom usually reserved for curses.

"Rone is an incompetent twat that is already responsible for as much death and misery as any other two Overlords put together, 'cept perhaps the great Aella himself. Thankfully for you, though, his council definitely won't be sending any assassins this way..." Grindan trailed off here, drawing his blade just enough to be able to stare at the steel. "...not to kill you, at least. I must've had attempts on my life at least a dozen times under Balthazar's reign, and I'd bet you my kingdom that every single one of these skeletons populating the graveyard that tried to make off with my head were sent to Rytael by the man at the top himself. You? You're safe, though. All of Lundland figures that you are dead".

"Do they? That's good to hear." He sighed, and leaned back into his pillow. "But, you're saying Rone is responsible for the death of late?" He made a curt laugh without smiling. "It's hard to imagine him responsible for anything." Theodore paused for a moment, tossing and turning under the sheets. The torchlight of the windowless room cast shadows over the almost bare walls. "I don't think he was doomed to be a bad Overlord. Maybe if Balthazar had lived five more years, maybe if we all enjoyed peace in that time, maybe if he grew up a little, Rone might have been a decent peace-time king. Such an ascetic, he. The foreigners would have loved him. He'd have entertained them at court."

Theodore sighed, this time more deeply. "And after meeting him, they'd probably kill him and attack Lundland again," he finished.

Theodore slowly shifted out of the bed, first with his arms, then his legs, and slowly stretched out his limbs, until he was standing firmly on the floor. He turned toward Lord Grindan. "If you've got a bottle of wine ready, I can explain everything. I've already slept for a day; my body won't let me rest again until I've gotten the piss and vinegar out."

Grindan looked Theodore in the eyes, the stoic King's stature upright and firm. His hand still rested calmly on the hilt of his sword. "Lack of action on Rone's part makes him just as guilty for all of the recent killing as the men on the ground actually committing the killing. We Lords justify our position atop the common-folk on the basis of our responsibility to them. We have power, we tell ourselves, but also the obligation to use it in the defence of those who don't. Rone, and those like him, are not only incompetent bastards that are responsible for the deaths they failed to prevent, but also responsible for the degradation of any positions they happen to hold. In Rone's case, the position being shat on is one that tens or hundreds of thousands of men have fought and died over for generations. Maybe it isn't all Rone's fault; he didn't ask to be Overlord, and he might very well have been starkly less incompetent if he had a few more years to grow. The problem with that idea is that none of us asked to be who we born into being. When I was in my father's balls, God didn't reach down to me and ask me whether I wanted to be the King of Aaldorenfeald. I was born into it—the power, luxury, and responsibility alike. God didn't ask Rone whether he wanted to be Overlord one day, but it fell into his lap anyway. It was his pile of shit to clean up, and just like the peasants outside cleaning up horse-shit, he's got to do it whether he'd like to or not. There are certain consequences men can run into if they fail to do what is meant for them."

Grindan turned his back to Theodore and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway to be flanked by guards. "And the consequence is doubled if they failed because they didn't even bother to fucking try!" he continued. "Now. Let's go wash down that piss and vinegar of yours with a lake's worth of wine".

---

The dining hall of Rytael was not like the dining hall of Bolgaz, or many other lords. It consisted of a single, long table. There were no paintings, tapestries, chandeliers, or even many candles. The only decoration were the torches on the wall.

"I admire your taste," said Theodore, as he turned his head about the hall. A cook had already brought up two bottles of wine, plates of salted pork, with steamed vegetables, and several tomatoes. Theodore went straight for his goblet, but dug into his food slowly.

"Where to begin?" he continued after the silence. His shoulders slumped over the table, and he stared off into space. "I suppose with the battle. Uthred lead us to that attack on the Bogan Host, thinking we could easily defeat them if they were already assaulting Country Castle. I suppose he thought the garrison would hold out longer than it did, because as soon as we arrived, they'd already taken the place. We ended up assaulting our own castle, and that turned out about as well as you'd expect. We did manage to send a party to set up ladders on the walls, and since most of the Host wasn't inside the castle yet, the force was able to get inside, and do battle. I joined them sometime later. Around that same time, the battle went from being mostly outside the castle, to the top of its walls. It was chaos; you couldn't tell your arm from another man's sword."

He paused for a moment, and took a draught of his wine. "And that's when I saw Constantine. I was relived to see him alive, so it didn't quite register to my mind quick enough why he was pushing me. I fell off the edge of the parapets, into the castle's moat, and he didn't even make a glance downward. That moat, mind, was eight foot deep, and I was in my full plate armour. It was difficult to get out. I nearly drowned. But, I made it out, and must have coughed up half the moat's water. I just laid there for a while, until the sounds of battle stopped. I had no idea if we won, and I didn't care. I found a horse, and went as far away from that place as I could. I've been wandering ever since."

Another silence. "I don't know if Constantine was told to try and kill me, or whether he did it for himself. Maybe he has deigns on the throne." Theodore scoffed. "It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" He took another drink of his wine, and bit into his food some more, absently stabbing his knife into the table.

"My Lord Grindan," he picked up again, turning toward you, and looking into your eyes with a sudden focus, "I'm asking you knowing that my life continues at your pleasure: do you hate the Crown?"

Grindan laughed at Theodore's question, a hearty and bellowing laugh that filled the entire room. He matched Theodore's intense gaze, and replied, "The salient issue, from my perspective, has been whether the Crown hates me. Balthazar used his royal cock to screw over all the Aaldoren more times than I can count. That ass of a man went out of his way to piss on my kingdom, on its people. If he had it his way, all of the Osgars would be dead, and he'd own all of my lands himself, to do with as he pleased".

Grindan took a swig of wine, a few angered breaths, and continued. "You can't expect the lords of the land to all bow to some hateful old bastard that'd rather have them rotting in the ground, solely on the basis that one of his ancestors once defeated one of your ancestors in battle. The way I see it, Lundland, the Crown, is a necessary evil—I'd rather Aaldorenfeald belong to the Overlord than any of the other despotic hell-holes bordering us, and the strength of the armies of Lundland, when united, is what has kept us from turning into the northern chunk of Mishfarden all these years. I'd prefer, though, for Aaldorenfeald not to belong to any outsiders. The day there's no King of Aaldorenfeald will be the day that the Aaldoren, nobility and commoners alike, plop onto their collective death bed and begin the slumber towards non-existence. Balthazar, for one, certainly seemed like he would've preferred if there hadn't been a King of Aaldorenfeald."

"So to answer your question, Lord Theodore, as to whether or not I hate the Crown: I only ever hate the man wearing it. And you..." Grindan stood, and patted Theodore's shoulder. "You're an easy man to like, from what I've heard."

Theodore paused, then nodded. "I've had a lot of time to think, on this way east. All these years, there's yet to be some crisis where Uncle Balthazar hadn't challenged one Lord or another to retake privileges, or do their duties. Dozens of conflicts, thousands of lives lost, feckless Lords who only look out for themselves. It's planted this seed in my mind, and I haven't been able to stop it from taking root. The idea is: why do we need a crown? The Lords of Lundland style themselves kings, and only say otherwise when someone bigger than them leers down. Our unity inspires conflict, and this conflict makes us weak. But suppose this conflict need not happen? Suppose each kingdom were truly its own kingdom?"

"What you've said is true," he continues, "my father hated Aaldoreanfeald. I've never been privy to his private machinations, so your guess is as good as mine to all the hostilities against you and your family, but he was very vocal against you. It's ironic, then." Theodore swirled the last of his goblet's wine, then downed it to the last drop, before continuing. "That the end of all his achievements shall begin here. Allow me to stop beating around the bush: I long for the crown, as you suspect, but not to wear it. I want to destroy it. I want to take my sorry Uncle's work, tear it down, and build it anew. I wish to make each Lord in Lundland a true equal. House Trisch shall be no-one's suzerain. Instead, every House and noble in the land shall be bound by oath to defend each other against foreigners, and the machinations of each other. Each Lord's land shall be their's to keep as they see fit for until their last descendent breathes their last breath. There's a word for this, but it's escaping me. . . a canton, I believe. A Canton of Lords."

He pauses, mulling over the thoughts, fiddling with his empty goblet. "The Canton of Lundland. Has a ring to it, no?" He chuckles a little. "My Lord Grindan, I shall not hold it against you if you disagree with me. I only share these things with you because I might guess that your greatest pleasures would be Aaldorean independence, and my cousin Rone's grisly death. In these things, I can offer a great deal of help. When I prove I am not dead, I'll dredge up old contacts, unpaid favours. You spoke correctly; I'm well-liked, but friendship is not the same as loyalty. Some will side with Rone simply because it suits them, or because they have no choice. If Helen gets anyone on her side, and there are several Great Lords who believe her claim is the best, then we shall have to overcome them as well. But we need not charge in foolishly. There's yet time to plan."

"So," he finishes, "my Lord Grindan, what do you think?"

Grindan sterned his look, seeming to pause for a short second, but ultimately gave a slight smile. "I accept your proposal, Lord Theodore. Aaldorenfeald shall back your attempts to institute this... 'Canton of Lords'. It suits my purposes, and no doubt the purposes of many other wise but independent Kings. Still others, though, may reject your idea with the most grisly variety of violence, and it is for that reason that you must have the backing of more than just one kingdom. With House Trisch's armies at a low point as they are, the armies of House Osgar can defeat them single-handedly. We cannot, however, defeat all those Lords who might choose to continue their support of Rone's possession of Lundland. We need to plan, and we need to muster as much strength for your cause as possible."

"Indeed," spoke Theodore. He nodded his head, rubbing his chin. "The best way to achieve our aim would be to undermine support for Helen, while raising support for ourselves. We need to reach out to as many Lords as possible. There are only a select few we 'ought to avoid. The Vearins, obviously. A woman would love nothing more than a woman on the throne. I'll reach out to my contacts, and you see who you can reach." He stood up from the long table, stumbling a bit from all the wine he imbibed. "Let's not waste any time. Every moment here counts."

((Collaboration with Flooby Badoop))

Lothar sat on his throne as the travel worn Sentinel was escorted into the throne room. The Sentinel kneeled before his lord in a sign of reverence and said "You summoned me, my Lord?" Lothar replied "Stand. This is not the time for such pleasantries." He then continued as the Sentinel rose "I read your report, but letters on words only convey so much. Tell me exactly what it is that you saw in the Crownlands." The Sentinel replied "My men and I escorted the relief caravan as you order my Lord. We came upon a disheartening sight. There were many wounded... bleeding, painfully to their deaths and painting the snow red. The charred remains of homes were evident... as many displaced and homeless were left to the mercy of nature. I-I... I think I stepped on a frozen body at one point."

The Sentinel took a second to himself as he continued to recall what he saw. "Those who we managed to help praised us as if we were the Apostles themselves. However, word soon spread of our aid, and more desperate people came. We were simply overwhelmed, and had too little to help everyone who needed the help. In the end, we were forced to return with an army of hungry children chasing us. It was shocking how the people were left to die."

Lothar remained silent and eventually closed his eyes. He gave an exaggerated exhale through his mouth. Then he finally opened his eyes. Lothar sternly said "Mr. Coyle." Lothar's steward, who had been standing off to the side, walked before Lothar and said "My Lord?" Lothar then said "How do our coffers look?" Mr. Coyle responded "They aren't bursting my lord due to our recent expenditures. I must caution against excessive spending, my Lord." Lothar replied "Folly, William. A lord is responsible for his people, and there should be nigh nothing that the Lord is willing to do for his people. Except Rone has proven himself to be someone that I can not respect as a man, much less as a sovereign. His derelict of duty and responsibility led to the death of thousands of his loyal vassals and subjects. Therefore, I can not sit still knowing that people are starving to death due to the negligence of their lord."

Mr. Coyle responded "What is it that you desire to do, my Lord?" Lothar replied "I want you to oversee the construction of new homes. If the people of Falkwreath Country have been abandoned by their lord, then I shall take up the duty." Mr. Coyle replied "But, my Lord, would this not be seen as an affront to the Crownlands?" Lothar replied "The day that Rone finally becomes a man and takes action for this... I will be more than glad to bear the consequences for it will mean that Lundland will finally have direction and hopefully fortune like the reign of Aella. But for now, I refuse to allow these people to suffer." Lothar then turned his attention back to the Sentinel "Send word to the Sergeant in Arms. He is to take 100 Sentinels, and supplies south to the border of Falkwreath Country. I hereby open our borders to allow any refugees or unfortunate soul to permanently relocate to Attolia. Thus, you and your men, under the command of Mr. Peterson, will escort these people back to Attolia."

Sentinel replied "As you command, my Lord." with a bow and then began to walk away. Lothar then said "Mr. Coyle, I trust that you will do your best given the financial constraints." Mr. Coyle replied "I will do what I can, my lord." as he then also left to begin his new task. Lothar was then approached by Nast, his adviser and Court Jester. Nast was a personal friend of his father, and former steward. However, his advancing age made him less willing and capable of performing physical tasks or going on long trips. Thus, he resigned and stayed as an adviser. Nast bluntly said "Although it is quite sad that people are dying in such a manner, I must say that blood and bodies serve as great fertilizer for next year's crops." Lothar looked at Nast. Lothar wasn't one for grim humor, but his jokes always had some sense in them. He replied "Indeed, but what is fertile soil worth when there is no one left to till the field?" Nast shrugged and said "Someone else can always come along and claim the field for himself." Lothar took note of Nast's comment and said "Taking a dead man's land, huh. I suppose some people are not as... discerning as others." Nast replied "Rather, some people are not wasteful enough to let good land go to waste." Lothar found himself unable to respond, and simply nodded in response.

Three Seasons Ago...

Night had fallen in Altheim, or at least as close to night as one could get in this polar summer. Had the Jarl and the frigid north not been intimately acquainted, he might have continued his trek until the temperatures plunged even lower and he keeled over. This first foray into the long abandoned Suehan homeland to the distant north was merely exploratory; no reason to take a risk just to trudge around in the snow any longer.

He reached down the neck of his thick fur jacket and produced a beautiful oak box, and examined its contents. Far to the left sat a glass cube, totally sealed, filled with a stout drink. He knew if this ever froze, he was within minutes of death. The remaining vials were of turpentine, strong wine, linseed oil, and water. All were frozen but the final warning, whereas at noon the turpentine could still be sloshed. Satisfied with the day's progress, he turned around and marched back to the cave from whence he came, where his guardsmen were waiting with fish and fires.

---

The empty snow was of no consequence to the Jarl. He would make for his true objective now, the former castle of House Vasa in this ancient land. There, perhaps, in the hallowed halls of his ancestors, he could find the peace of mind the loss of his beloved could provide him.

After eating breakfast, the Jarl announced today would be the final day of the expedition, prompting hushed cheers from the 50 or so Huskarls he'd brought along with him. They eagerly packed up and headed back to the ship, still sitting on the patch of icy ground they'd left it on. On the Jarl's command they set off and sailed west, till the resemblence of a fortification could be seen on the horizon.
It was a curious work, very much unlike the rectangular walls that characterized Lundish defensive architecture. Likely, the maximum ratio of area to perimeter was preferred over the more easily contructed linear methods. Laborers they had many, defenders they had few.

The Jarl was first off the prow onto the frozen ground, landing with a colossal crunch on the thin ice of the shore. He walked towards the humble keep, seemingly oblivious to the struggles of his men behind him as they pulled the ship ashore. The frosted, snow capped keep seemed to beckon.

There was little left of the keep's furnishings, but this he knew already and was of no concern. The enormous ice throne, 10 feet in height and as magnificently detailed as it was those centuries ago, struck awe into the Jarl.

Legend had it, that the former stonemasons of Altheim, when quarrying had become too difficult, carved an enormous throne of ice to serve the Konungr whilst the evacuation was taking place. When it came time to leave, the aged Konungr refused. He would not be a vagrant king, but would die, with his kingdom. That legend appeared to be true, for as the Jarl carefully ascended the slippery, perfectly smooth ice staircase, he nearly jumped out of his skin to see a man holding a spear upright, staring off into space. Haraldr was staring at none other than his fortieth great-grandfather!

Out of the snow, the ice had frozen on to his skin clear, so that his features could be seen. He was a scarred man, to the point of ugliness. Two long scars ran down both cheeks, one nostril had a slit, and were this not gruesome enough, he appeared to be missing an eye. Yet the other eye was as cold, blue, and piercing as the Arctic sea.

Haraldr noted where the eye was looking. Not into space, as surmised, but on a carving above the door, visible only from the throne.

Haraldr's runic wasn't perfect, but he could make out the inscription well enough.

"The north wind did not take us. We take the north wind!"

The peasants and serfs of the land had burst into work when the cold subsided, but their lists of chores became as short as the nights, and there was now some time in each day to relax. The sun was out most days, and storms were not so numerous. For those who did not face hardships in the last annum, it was peaceful, warm, and quiet. In the south, the days were hot enough that fires no longer needed to be kept at night, and for once people regretted cursing the cold as they had, for this Growing season proved particularly hot. In the north, the temperature was perfect: a cool breeze swept over land, keeping the sun's warmth from scorching the earth.

Those in the towns rejoiced at the new goods available at the markets, the travelling troupes and traders, who could now reach them with ease. One could walk the streets without fear of the weather, and children played games outside doorsteps.

To most in Lundland, the worries that beset them in past years seemed of little concern, and elders recalled the many peaceful years during Balthazar's reign. Trying to sound smart, some would say that the recent battles of late were only a hiccup, and Rone, favoured by God, had restored order. Indeed, even the most cynical could not help but feel careless in the light of perfect weather and peaceful calm.

There was not, however, a single Lord in Lundland who shared this opinion.

The recent declaration by House Vearin sparked outrage. Numerous letters poured into their court, demanding that the traitorous princess be handed over. Rumours echoed off the walls at Bolgaz's court, that Theodore had been found, and a number of the Great Lords schemed to place him on the throne. Raiders and bandits abound wreaked havoc on the coffers of Lords, and many are panicked. New arms are being commissioned in the hundreds, while troops practice daily in courtyards. All over high society is the feeling of imminent and unwanted war. It seems only the Great Lords of Lundland see opportunity in the chaos presented.

But perhaps the greatest scandal of the last season came in the form of goodwill.

Lord Lothar Wolff, the Lord of Attolia, had been sending crops to the devastated Crownlands, that the people there may be alleviated from starvation, as their lands were ravaged by the Bogans. Everywhere the Lord's men went, they saw abandoned houses, people left to die in the fields, many of which were either tended by weak hands, or by no-one at all. Hordes of thin children with caved-in faces begged incessantly for food. Upon having these images reported to him, the Lord ordered that Attolia open its borders to anyone who wish it, and to not only continue his charity work, but to enlist the aid of his vassals and the Church. He condemned the inaction of House Trisch, and made certain his men delivered the crops to their proper destinations.

The nobility of the Crownland took great offence to these actions. Oh, they appreciated the charity alright, but when they heard that their peasants and serfs were to be invited away from them, there was an uproar. Many noble houses had lost fathers and sons in the wars with the Bogans. There were many whose Houses were to go extinct, and many more who were so impoverished that they starved alongside their subjects. That their sources of wealth were to be taken away from them was inconceivable. A very large petition was sent to House Trisch, citing the ancient rights of the nobility were being trodden upon by a fellow vassal of the realm, accompanied by insinuations that their poverty was to be confused as laziness!

Sir Ingen, the father of Theodore, stepped in, and told the Attolian soldiers that they were not allowed to take any so-called 'refugees' with them, and that violation of this order was to result in serious punishment.

Rone stayed in his bedroom during almost all of the growing season. He came out of it looking stronger than ever, covered in the dried blood of foxes and cats, which were littered about his bedroom floor. For the first time in his entire reign, he also issued an order: the equipment for a hundred knights were to be forged in Everfallow, to arm the nobility untouched by the recent war. He invited these nobles to Bolgaz. When asked about this sudden decree, he strikes at the inquirer, and says nothing more.

---

It is now the Growing Season, AU 107