With a firm but delicate stride Joakim marched through the hallways, causing a ruckus as he pushed aside a guardsman and servant who were conversing about a new sort of cheese. This all caused some chaos as the guard tripped over over his glaive, fell facefirst into a barrel and then continued his fall into a bucket of cleaning water. The servant rushed to help the guard, getting him on his feet again as the guard murmured something about apologies to lord regent Joakim. Lord regent, however, didn't seem to hear him as he continued his stampede down the halls. Passing a scribe of his, he raised his hand to him and gave out a command. “Send out a crow my uncle Favrin, marquis Gallatin, Baron Dennison and .. just call the banners!” The scribe raised a squeeky voice, trembling almost. “B-but my liege..” Joakim stopped dead in his tracks, turned around and walked closer. “Call the banners!” The scribe didn't answer, but simply bowed and ran off to write letters. Joakim continued down the hallway, somewhat more calm after yelling out his frustrations. He was headed for the gathering room, which was one of the simplest rooms in the entire keep as it's most prominent feature was probably the smaller version of the 'real throne,' seated at the end of the large table atthe center of the room. The bannermen would gather here to discuss whatever matters Joakim brought to the table. Crows flew from the keeps tower. The banners were called, and their feudal oath implored them to answer and ride for Wintershouse. After that the scribes would hurry across the keep and the village, calling to the keep the most important courtiers and servants. Evan Finn, the replacement of master scribe Barnabas who was unfit to attend. Joren Volkov, master at arms and commander of the garrison of Wintershouse. Briala Chesfield, the Lords' Huntsman. Over the course of a week the hall filled up, with the most northern bannermen sending envoys rather than coming themselves, as the trek would've taken even longer had they come in full ornament. The bannermen that had come were mostly earls and counts, baron Dennison and marquis Gallatin being notable exceptions, which were quite explainable due to their history with the weade and their precarious position within the court of Weades as they were direct vassals of the Weade's, rather than indirect through being a vassal of a count or earl. The opening ceremony was rather traditional, as always. Per custom of the house of Weade, all the earls and counts had to swear fealty to their new liegelord, or in this case the regent who represented lord Gregar. Joakim welcomed them, his voice shaking ever so slightly as he was not used to nor trained to speak in front of a crowd, especially not a crowd of important men. “W-welcome lords and ladies. I have called your banners today because..” Joakim fell silent for a moment, looking at the ground as he rest his fists on the thrones' armrests. A few of the counts started whispering and one of them even had the nerve to speak. “Get the hell on with it lad.. calling the banners is a serious manner, not some thing to do when you are bored.. I have my damn lands to tend to.” Some of them nodded in agreement, others chose to stay their tongue and pay due respect to the lord's son, who continued speaking. “If you had paid any attention to matters concering the realm rather than your own lands, you would've noticed my father and your liegelord Rikard had gone to serve the king in the Ironhill campaigns, ser Erik.” A silence fell over the crowd as Joakim continued, making it a point to keep his eyes fixed on ser Erik. “And perhaps you'd also have known that he fell in battle.” Several of the lords bowed their heads in respect, others were somewhat shaken by the sudden news of the death of their liegelord. Taking several minutes to give them some time to collect themselves, as well as give him some time to recover from his sudden outburst, he breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply. “Then I wish to collect your oaths of fealty to my brother, the rightful heir to duke Rikard, ser Gregar Weade of Wintershouse. Do you swear upon your dynasty to serve your liege into death of either side of this contract?” A silence creeped over the hall, eerie and eternal as only a moment of silence can make you feel in a moment of importance. Lord Erik, the rude count, stood up and put his left hand over his heart and the right rested on his sword. “Yes, I swear it on my heart and sword, may my dynasty rot if I commit betrayal!” He stood proudly, and Joakim nodded to him, implicitly thanking him for his correction of tone. The other lords followed suit, repeating his words and also holding their heart and sword. Getting that out of the way Joakim continued on with the more important matters at hand -- such as the letter lord Harrighfield sent to the keep after the death of ser Rikard. “Good, because we will need your oaths. Lord Perris of Harrighfield has sent us a letter shortly after we heard of the death of my father. It says.. he intends to take Wintershouse and claim the Whitelands. He uses the 'incapability to rule' of my brother Gregar as a ground for his claim. It seems the king has not interfered, even though this claim is unbased and unworthy. However.. he marches with an army.” The counts had mixed responses, some angry and some calm as they contemplated a proper course of action. Having spread the message that he'd have to spread, he gave the lords of the court some time to appeal their suggestions and ideas to him, and he made sure to include the courtiers into the list of people that were allowed to comment. Just as he was about to conclude the meeting, a messenger boy ran in, exhausted and panting heavily. As he caught his breath he muttered to the court. “L-lord Joakim! Ser Nigel of Northermoat has been captured by raiders, ser, and his wife requests your assistance.” Joakim looked over his courtroom of counts and earls and attempted to remember who the lord closest to Northermoat was. Earl Ramet had a decent sized barony near the small villagetown that was to be the place of capture, however earl Ramet had to make arrangements to send troops to Wintershouse from his main holding, the castle of Eyrewatch. As such, his forces in the barony would need a decent captain to deal with the raiders. “Ser Ramet, I trust you will not object if I use the forces in your barony nearby to free ser Nigel? Master Volkov,” he said as he turned in his throne to face the master at arms. “You will travel with me to Northermoat. I trust you can still ride a small horse, or a slow horse? I wouldn't want to overextend your leg.” Joakim smiled at the man as he faced back to the assembly. “Alright, thank you for coming today, lords, counts and other friends. You may return to your estates to prepare. Lord Gregar counts on you all.” As most of the earls, counts and other servants left the room, Joakim sighed deeply and got up, clearly shaken and tired from the whole assembly. However, there was a final thing he had to do. “Lady Briala, please go to the tavern in the village and ummm... make sure the counts' men don't cause any trouble.” As much as Joakim hated ordering people around and giving them mundane tasks, these things had to be done. Briala was a keen girl, however, and Joakim held some form of respect for her hunting capabilities. However, he was also under the impression that she was a man born in the wrong body, though he would never out such remarks to her. It was still strange to see a woman in a mans' position, but Joakim just decided to ignore it for now and let Gregar deal with it when he returned home. Gregar.. Joakim could sure use his clever sarcastical comments and cheesy grin right now. “Uncle,” he said as he adresed his uncle, count Favrin, just before the man left the room. “I feel like it might be worthwile to have you come with me to Northermoat. Please join me and ser Volkov.” His uncle was a bit detached from the family at times, or at the very least didn't quite fit in with Gregar and Joakim as the man was stern and serious. Never the less the man was a loyal servant for many years now and never seemed to hold a grudge against his brother, their father, for being first born. His experience was worth a lot, both on the battlefield and off it. Joakim turned to look where the scribe had gone, catching him in time and hailing him by raising his hand at him. “Scribe!” he said, not quite knowing the boys' name just yet as they wouldn't have interacted much before. “Please, fetch marquis Gallatin and show him the.. the book thing that you scribe people write down the money things in. Please inform him he is in command of the Wintershouse until I return. Assist him in anyway you can, and do everything he asks.” When he was finally done giving orders to those that needed them, he let out a sigh once again and slowly lowered himself into a more relaxed position on the throne. He took a few minutes to prepare himself before he got up and went to the courtyard, where he mounted his horse and waited for his uncle and the master-at-arms and their small retinue of 8 knights that would go with them as guards. If they left right now, the journey would take aproximately a day and a half to reach the small inlet of the icy plains where Northermoat was located. From there it was only an estimation of where the raiders would be, keeping ser Nigel hostage, no doubt for a fat purse.

Marquis Urik allowed his dazed eyes to pursuing the rather complicated contents of the reports page, grey optics half-lidded with boredom as his astute brain quickly and efficiently compartmentalized the information held therein. The subject of the page was not really so important; some minor courtier was arguing for increased revenue in his district to build a more efficient well management system. Urik mentally crunched the numbers: they didn't add up. What was more likely was the man was looking for noble money to continue funding whatever drunken guests he found most entertaining on the cold Whiteland evenings. A swift stroke of the pen later and the request was denied, with an addendum to send inspectors out to view the progress on the last project the man had requested money for. Urik now had his doubts that project had ever gotten off the ground. Sadly these days the enormous amount of corruption in the Whitelands was almost untenable, with most of it stemming from the courtiers and minor nobles; men of influence were smart enough to avoid the marquis' mighty pen. That was, unless, they were working for him. Shutting the report Urik side-desked it, wiry fingers delving underneath the various papers that littered his desk for a second bound notebook. The particular book was much more intricately designed than the one he'd previously set down. For one thing it was actually bound and the front contained a series of burnt-in designs depicting the sprouting and growth of an enormous flower. To the Marquis his day-job as Master of the Exchequer was really just a sometimes interesting diversion from what he actually did hour-to-hour: enrich himself beyond everyone's imagination. He'd started small at first, skimming a little here and there from public projects. The real problem with the system and the reason there was so much corruption was because there was very little oversight built into it. It was basically just Urik and his retinue of maybe twelve men accounting for the finances of an entire demosne; things tended to get lost or forgotten rather easily. Over time Urik had learned to use this to his advantage. He wasn't really accountable to anyone. Maybe the Duke dropped by every now and then to ask how things were going and to see if he had enough money to keep up his various military endeavors but there was not really anything beyond that. But then again, how could there be? Being Master of the Exchequer was an extremely taxing affair which left time for little else; the only way Urik was able to get away from his scheming and still have time for other things was because his scheming was merely a function of his larger position. It was too time intensive for the Duke or his family to get involved, ergo the creation of Urik's position in the first place. The particular tome in the Marquis' hands detailed the extent of his treachery, basically being a log of the otherwise unaccounted for money flow which traveled beneath the lazy eye of the ducal kingdom. The Marquis himself in some cases stoked or looked over corruption, but only when those involved thoroughly swore their allegiance directly to the Gallatin family. By now he and his brother, Gerrik, had managed to build up quite the extensive network of clients and friends though it was still nowhere large or overt enough to be a threat to the Duke or his family. Gallatin supposed this was probably why no-one had discovered it yet. That and his extensive network of spies and informants who worked to prevent that very thing from happening. Controlling the purse strings had made Marquis Urik a powerful, cunning, and deadly man. Before Urik could venture any further into his duplicitous affairs a knock on the door roused him from his reverie. The Marquis casually placed the book back beneath a nearby pile of papers before summoning the servant inside; he wasn't much worried about the items discovery, it contained a long series of vague mathematical notes which would be next to impossible to decipher without foreknowledge of what one was reading and beyond that most of the actual words within were written in a sort of short-hand code. "Marquis Urik, an urgent message from his lordship the Regent of Whitelands. With a bow the servant approached and gave to Urik a small, wrapped scroll. Unfurling it the now Lord of the Castle reviewed his orders. Hm', how fortuitous. Urik had long been aware of the delicate balance of power which had been maintained, sometimes violently, between his own home of Whitelands and their neighbor the Forklands. To see that another bloody set of skirmishes was about to break out was not particularly surprising. Actually, for the Marquis it was quite fortunate. The chaos of a campaign could allow him to expand his network even further; perhaps now was the time to begin garnering more overt support? The Weade dynasty was beginning to weaken, the death of Rikard and his second son Joakim's inability to be a charismatic leader were certain signs. Even experience men like the late Duke's brother Favrin were seen by some as pushovers; Favrin had not even tried to establish his own sphere of influence in the death of his brother, even though he was the most experienced candidate. Dissatisfaction would come to many soon after the news of Rikard's death broke; the transitioning of royal power was delicate and could be easily disrupted. The first thing to do would be to begin sowing doubt. There were a fair number of religious men in the Whitelands and Urik intended to start there. Dismissing the servant Urik began work on a new piece of parchment, scrawling upon it orders for a friendly mystic, friendly to Urik at least, to accompany the train of Joakim and do his best to upset the various supernatural entities which obviously shaped the course of human destiny. This done, the unmarked and unsigned document could be handed off to a loyal spy and dispatched post-haste. Leaning back Marquis Urik allowed his serptine lips to curl into a cunning smile, all but forked tongue flickering behind the facade of steadfast loyalty. His time was coming. . .

Baron Favrin didn't lounge, but it was the closest he would ever be. He propped his feet upon his desk as he stared up at the lofty ceiling. A letter was tossed carelessly upon the ground, crumpled and quite torn. From Favrin's left hand a bottle of spirits dangled, empty. A cowed servant huddled near the door, not daring to be fully in the room but in fear of actually leaving. Another two servants waited outside the door, ready to spring into any action required of them. The whole household was silent. No one dared utter a word over a whisper. The only soul who dared Favrin's wrath was his mother. Of course she had retired hours ago to mourn in her own way. For usually a letter from Favrin's son Corbin was a joyous thing. For all of the house shared Favrin's fears that his eldest son would die in battle and each letter was a sure sign of life. It was when the letters stopped arriving that grief would be upon them. So none had suspected when the letter showed what grief would follow. So far none but the Elder Dutchess and the Baron knew what was the cause. But the servants could guess. Someone died. Not Corbin, since he penned the letter. Was it one of the nephews or worse? The brother, the Duke? For it couldn't be the King. Such a matter of vital importance couldn't have been carried over by a lowly Knight, no matter that he might be a Baron one day. When the second missive arrived by the Duke's Black Crows, the servants stepped even lighter. The new letter was delivered by trembling hands to the Baron. He took it, read over it, dismissed all servants. He didn't emerge until the next day. Favrin had aged years in those few hours. New lines crossed his face and his hair looked even more grey than it had been. "Prepare my horse!" Favron shouted. "Fetch a bath, prepare my riding things!" Servants parted in his wake. People scurried this way and that. Each intent on their task. Their master was going. They had to make ready. Everyone knew their dance and they were efficient. By the time the Baron was dressed and ready, so were they. The servants prided themselves on anticipating his every need. Five men were ready to ride. Each one chosen because of their loyalty, and because if their master needed defending, they'd do it. They all sensed the coming turmoil. Rapid change was never good in the Whitelands. The Baron and his entourage arrived at the Duke's castle. Favrin tossed off his riding cloak, letting it fall to the ground. He made it off his stallion before his first servant was able to rush over and assist him. He ran a hand over his wind mussed hair. His long strides ate the ground and men moved to let him passed. Everyone knew what he was here for. His first stop was to see Joakim, his nephew, the Lord Regent. Without any fanfare he dropped to his knee and pledged his loyalty. He'd do it once again with everyone to see, but for now this would do. "My nephew. My Sword, my Honor, and my Life are yours." Favrin briefly thought that he was too old to be kneeling on stone, but he didn't rise until released. "I am ever at your disposal." The Baron's next stop was to comfort his sister-in-law, the still beautiful Catryn, even marred by grief. Together the two mourned for a man they both loved. It made it clear he was there for not only the Dutchess, but for Joakim too. The week passed excruciatingly slow. Yet the day the rulers assembled under the duke's halls passed far too quickly. Favrin had chosen his best court clothes and stood attendance near Joakim. But not too near. Joakim had to do this himself. Favrin wouldn't weaken his nephew's rule. So it was when the boy struggled he stood impassively, despite some of the looks the other Baron and Marquis gave him. Why do you not support your family? The looks demanded. Yet Favrin stood immovable. Only once did he move. It was only once, and no one noticed for they were all staring at Joakim as he delivered news of the death of the Duke. Favrin had looked up breifly in askance of God? Or to keep tears at bay? When it came time to swear oaths Favrin was second after Lord Erik, Lord bless the man. "I so swear." Favrin saluted his nephew and hoped the boy knew he was proud of him. And that his father must be too in Heaven. Then came the dire news. He cast his eyes over the assembled men and marked those who weren't surprised by the news. For Favrin was not the only many with ears in far off places. Nor even the only one watching the every move of the Lord Regent, as he now was. Still Favrin inhaled sharply. The men around him began to began to talk over one another. Some angry, some afraid. They clumped together as soon as it was obvious that Joakim would not add anything more to his dire speech. Favrin listened as the men talked around him. A few looked over at him, but none readily approached him yet. He had sworn allegiance, but some suspected duplicity. Men however approached Joakim to talk to him. Most were still unhappy as they walked away. But trust would come with time. Time though, they might not have. With the new news of Northermoat being captured the mood turned decidedly unpleasant. Yet, if Favrin had to judge, most, if not all in the hall at the moment would stand with the Lord Regent. But that would change upon Lord Perris of Harrighfield's arrival. Slowly the men trickled out of the hall. Favrin lingered waiting to be alone with his nephew. It was nice that the nephew desired the same of him. Uncle, I feel like it might be worthwile to have you come with me to Northermoat. Please join me and ser Volkov. "Of course my Lord." Favrin bowed to his nephew. Then was dismissed. Favrin didn't begrudge the boy his space. There would be enough time to talk upon horseback. Out of the hall he motioned his man and sent him off. They weren't quite prepared for this, but they adapted quickly. By the time Favrin reached the stables, his horse was ready and so was he properly attired for riding. In his bags was no doubt his armour and his men's also. They might not have planned to ride off to battle, but they had planned.

Joren Volkov was a man fond of frowning, and often found himself frowning for one reason or another at any given time of the day. He grimaced in the mornings as he limped around his chambers, every step sending a jolt of pain through his leg -- the mornings were always the worst. By noon on even a bad day, Joren liked to think, he could outrun any other cripple in the Whitelands. In the mornings, though, he was invariably reduced to a slow shuffle on a good day or a cane on a bad one. As the years had passed, more bad days had started to come than good ones. He found himself frowning again by midday, drilling the paltry guard that had been left to garrison the castle since the late Duke had marched off. Mostly they were boys who had never left the village or fought someone with a body that wasn't made of straw, and Joren's frown would grow deeper as the men grew more tired. By the afternoon he would call off training and the guardsmen would go off to patrol -- or, increasingly, to drink in the village and chat with servants in the halls. Joren would continue frowning throughout the various council meetings and court sessions that he was able to attend, and that frown grew ever deeper on the day that the boy regent called the lords to him. It was a necessary formality, of course, but still one that might have been better off saved for when the new Duke, Joakim's brother Gregar, finally found the time to come back to his seat. A sixteen-year-old regent without a hair on his chin did little to inspire confidence in one's vassals. Regardless the day passed, and lords began to pour into the keep. Among those was an envoy of Joren's own family, some distant cousin or another, from whom Joren learned that his children were growing up well at home. He had often considered bringing them to the Wintershouse -- or perhaps even retiring from his position and going to them -- but the boy regent was in need of good guidance now if he ever would be, and so it was Joren's duty to stay. It was also his duty to keep one of his trademark frowns from becoming too apparent when Joakim had announced the army marching into the Whitelands, and Joren found himself even more taxed when the boy declared that he would be travelling to free a captured knight himself -- and that Joren would be accompanying him. It had been years since he had left the keep, to be completely honest, and he hadn't sat a horse in a good thirty years, with good reason. Regardless, he could hardly disobey, especially when Joakim had already managed to point out his leg and his horse issues in a single remark. And so Joren nodded in silence and resigned himself to a long trip on horseback to manage a garrison of unfamiliar soldiers who owed him no loyalty. With any luck the horse would fall to the right if it fell, and Lord Perris would not circle around to take the Wintershouse while everyone but the coin-counters and the drunken guardsmen were gone. After the meeting Joren met with his garrison, chose someone he was reasonably certain that he could trust to manage the guard, and then went off to see about finding a sturdy horse. One low to the ground, perhaps.

Argos of Plios considered himself to be a religious man. He was, after all, a prominent priest of the church of the true faith and known throughout the Whitelands as a seer of good nature and true virtue. Still, in his many years at the helm of his various flocks Argos had come to find that religion and politics tended to mesh quite readily. He'd served as the personal advisor and spiritual councilor to a variety of nobles both high and low and found even more so now that he was getting on in age that his services were always in demand. Everyone wanted to know that their immortal soul would reach the afterlife, everyone wanted to know what their fortunes would be on earth. It was in this capacity as spiritual advisor that he'd been summoned to the capital of the Whitelands under mysterious orders. The note he'd received had contained a rather generous donation to the priest's sometimes affluent flock and promised there would be no shortage of work in that area in the near future. Furthermore the message had also contained some. . . suggestions as to the nature of his upcoming sermons. There really wasn't anything uncouth about changing the topic of his lectures and so, after some thought, Argos agreed. What would it hurt to preach a little fire and brimstone? In the few days since he'd gotten there the priest had spent his time worming his way into the courts and hearts of the various militaristic kinds. His reputation was not overwhelming but never-the-less his name was still recognized and many were willing to give a little coin to hear what words he had to say. In all cases he stuck to his previously set topic: the dangers of earthly authority, specifically authority which could be wielded by those who were incompetent or untrained in its use. Understandably this whole situation had instantly put him on the outs with the ducal court but really, that was just as well with Argos. His mysterious employer was continuing to send him bags of gold and so Argo was just as happy to continue flapping his lips. When Joakim and the ducal entourage prepared to depart that same employer made sure Argos had a writ of sanction by a higher religious authority to observe, report, and give council on the actions under-taken but the young liege-lord. It simply wouldn't do to have a proper young noble travel about without real religious overview? What would become of his morals? More than that if Joakim declined he risked the support of his barons by appearing a godless heathen. And so, as the journey began Argos kept yapping and Jaokim's just recently built-up position began eroding.

Tension hung heavily in air ever since word had reached them of Lord Rikard's death. It was also unlikely to dissipate soon, so mused Evan Finn, the informal Master Scribe. This was a most delicate time for the Whitelands, and especially for the young Weade Joakim. Already multiple parties were openly moving to take advantage of the current instability, The regent had reacted well enough, and Evan felt a small sense of admiration for the boy he himself was only a few winters senior. Joakim had acted quickly. Maybe not with as much surety as the Weade were known for, but it was sufficient for now. That didn't mean he was placing all his faith in the boy. Evan hoped Gregar arrived sooner rather later. It seemed as though they barely had time to mourn for Duke Rikard, although the formal ceremonies for that would probably arrive when the heir to the seat of Winterhouse, Gregar, returned. Evan had no news of his father, who had been among those accompanying Rikard. “The world stops for no one.” Evan muttered to himself as he set about collecting the various relevant ledger books of the keep with the help of another apprentice scribe. Technically, he was still an apprentice himself. But dear old Barnabas had suffered some sort of fit and was currently bedridden. He had been in the towers when the first messenger crow arrived. It remained to be seen whether he would be well enough to continue his duties. “You say something, Finn?” called an older scribe from across the small room. “Nothing, Fletcher. Prepare the record books from last year in case the Marquis needs them. You'll be his errand boy when he arrives.” Evan gathered the books in a small stack and bound a leather belt around all of them. He left the work to the other scribe. He had only seen the Marquis of Urik a few times in the past, and quite frankly, Evan didn't like the man. There was a saying about the Gallatins in the Whitelands - 'Everybody in the courts know what the Gallatins are thinking.' Even if Galen hadn't been born into that particular family, Evan didn't think his opinion would change. The man just irked him. Something in his countenance, the way he dressed... Winter's breath, he was no noble but as a northerner he felt no man should be that proud to dress that extravagantly! More and more it seemed to Evan that the northern breed was dying out with the way some of these nobles acted. As great apprehension he felt at thinking a man like Galen Gallatin was the one being put in charge of Wintershouse. it was not his place to speak out against it. After all, he was just a mere scribe. But somebody really should have. Setting aside his misgivings, he had a messenger sent to the marquis to inform his of his new position and had the servants told to call for him when he arrived. In the meantime, Evan had other work to do. He settled himself in the Master Scribe's study, and laid a thick, heavy tome on the main writing table. The book was rather simply titled, Historie of the Most Noble Weade Family. He set aside another table for his personal journal and gathered various other books and letters, another table for a lamp, before gathering his writing paraphernalia. The feel of the pen in his hand relaxed the scribe, and he spent a long while in contemplation before opening the tome to the latest blank page before carefully writing. 54th year of Passing, 21st of October -Scibe Evan Finn The land is strife with many ongoing conflicts waged in the name of His Royal Majesty King Etwine of Borhilon. The Ironhills, under the dominion of His Majesty and governed by Duke Perris of Harrighfield, saw conflict over the rights of ownership to a particular mine. Negotiations failed to hold, with the result that King Etwine issued an invitation to battle for the possession of the mines. His Grace, Duke Rikard Weade, Rikard the Just responded to the summons of his liege and brought with him twoscore of his own men, including his son and heir Gregar, joined by other nobles under his vassalage and their levies. Alas, Rikard fell in battle, leaving the Whitelands under the temporary rule of his thirdborn son, Joakim Weade. Rumors are abound in the land of Lord Perris' bullish use of power. Many suspect this conflict is merely a stepping stone to secure a greater hold over the land of Borhilon, darker rumors tell of ambitions for the throne. This is a turbulent time for the Weades, as Lord Perris makes a claim to Winterhouse's seat, affirming the idea of Lord Perris' hunger for more power. Lord Regent Joakim called a meet at the Winstershouse, whereupon various nobles swore their fealty to the heir apparent, Gregar. The following noblemen pledged their service and loyalty to the new Duke Weade... The room remained in silence, but for the flickering of the lamplight and the scratching sound of pen upon paper. Evan Finn went studiously about his task. History was unfolding.

A few solitary streams of sunlight crept through the thin east-facing windows of the room Rufus Tallow Rossric was sleeping in. The old castle had a creak about itself that, to those who lived inside its walls permanently, would create a lulling ambience - stone gently knocking against wooden beams, glass trappings against the window frames, and most notably, the amplified pitter-patter of the servants dutifully going about their daily tasks. Rufus has awoken to these sounds every morning of his life and finds it troubling to sleep without the gentle rumble of the Fordkeep. His eyes opened with a slow, meaningful blink of the eyelids, much like how a horse bows and drops it's head against the grassy floor with gentle rhythmic inclinations. The sun had barely peaked the horizon but the Fordkeep's cogs were already turning - servants served, guards guarded, a woman could be heard laughing at the end of the corridor followed by the tip-tap of her feet against the wood-paned floor and the tail of her dress dragging behind. Rufus had spent twenty-two years falling asleep and waking up in this room and he had become acute at predicting whether footsteps were proceeding towards the door of his bedroom, or walking away - after all, the room he was in is he only one on the corridor; and anyone walking in his direction must be coming to see him. He wasn't alarmed - he had heard that woman's laugh time and time again. There was a knock on the door. "Just a moment," he said as he hopped out of bed and replaced his nightwear with something a little more appropriate - a white silk shirt lined with cotton, and a pair of black trousers. "Come in." The large wooden door creaked a quiet song as it swung on its hinges. "My lord," said she, "news has come from our northern neighbours that requires your attention." Outstretched her arm, dressed in the long green sleeve of her golden-lined dress, and in her hand a folded letter possessing the broken wax seal of what he knew to belong to Waldenmark, the northernmost keep of Forkland. "Who has opened this letter?" he asked, stepping forwards and taking the letter into his own hands. "I have, my lord," she replied - it was the custom of those of Forkland to be respectful when news of death arrived, regardless of who the death belonged to. It was because of this that Rufus well understood the nature of the letter, having not yet opened it. Rufus unfolded the letter to find only a few lines of writing, neat and orderly in all respects. Rufus folded the letter again and placed it on his desk amongst other folded letters. "That is indeed dire news," said he. "Have the town crier announce a service in his honour at noon. I'd like to see my brother at the Altar before then." The woman in the green dress nodded dutifully and attended to her directions. Rufus took a moment to appreciate the fondness he has towards the woman, who was indeed his wife. Louis Rossric, though five years Rufus' younger, stood an inch taller. His body was as strong, if not stronger, than the mind of his brother and his hand at the sword and shoulder at the lance were unmatched in any of the Forkland tournemants to date. If only, mused Rufus, if only his mind were as strong - alas, he is a simple brother. And it was true, for Louis has never taken to pages of a book - stories had never stolen him away like they had Rufus. "I have heard the news, brother," said Louis bounding up the steps to the alter where Rufus waited as crowds gathered outside the church's doors in anticipation for the service. "Tis' haunting. I pray the conflict does not come to trouble us." "Dear brother, that is in fact why I have asked to meet you here. As Lord of the Banner, it would calm us greatly and give the people assurance if you were to assemble a force capable of defending the banks. You know as well as I, if the Whitelands is taken by store the wind from the Ice Plains will only send the thunderclouds south." Doves were dispatched to all corners of Forkland carrying messages of deed. Within a week, all tavern doors and town criers told of one thing: Fordkeep seeks knights loyal to peace and prosperity... It was to his wife that Rufus later confided after the service: "I fear - I have been fearing - for the stillness of our lands. Something brews in those ghastly hills, something insidious. We cannot let it reach our banks."

To Gregar Weade, son of Rikard Weade, 2nd born son, rightful heir to the keep of Wintershouse and the duchy of the Whitelands, I wish to inform you that lord Perris of Harrighfield has sent a message to the vassals of the king, amongst which Joakim Weade, your younger brother, as well as your heir. The message says that he wishes to take your rightful place in the Whitelands, stating that you are incapable of leading your duchy. Your brother has taken his place as lord regent until you return to the Wintershouse, and has collected oaths of fealty from your vassals. After doing so he departed for the north, to travel to the Northermoat with your master at arms, master Volkov, and also your uncle, lord Favrin. They intend to rescue a nobleman taken hostage by a band of raiders, however there weren't many details surrounding what kind of raiders. An interesting note is that a priest from the church of God and his Seven Sons has shown up, asking to represent the church during this endeavour. It's unclear who he is, or why he has chosen this specific, meaningless march to the north to represent the church. Knowing the church's priests are famous for.. being less than pious, I would not put it beyond the man to be there to represent his own interests. However, nothing is certain as of yet. Aside from that, lord marquis Urik has taken control of the keep for now, until Joakims' return. The man is doing a good job at maintaining day-to-day bussiness for the castle, and has even calmed down some of the people who questioned Joakims' rulership. It seems that they trust Joakims' advisors. The man is a good steward and deserves praise, my lord. All is quiet, and winter lurks. Lord Perris marches and we need you now, more than ever. I ask you as a friend, not as a subject, do return home soon. Signed, Andrus Otterby, loyal servant to the crown and the Whitelands. Root to top. Underneath the man's name was a seal of the Otterby family, a river running past an old tree. The Otterby family had been a long time serving family of the Weade's who remained unlanded. Instead they resided in the Wintershouse. Members of their family spread across all ranks of the keep, ranging from servants, maids and guards to spymasters, marshals and bodyguards. Gregar had planned to order the construction of a new march on the border with the Forklands in order to give them some significant stature as a payment for their livelong servitude, but that'd have to wait now. Gregar tossed the letter onto the desk in his tent, put his hands behind his head and thought for a good five minutes. Lord Perris was known for his ambitious traits, but to directly assert a claim onto a throne of another duke? Quite unheard of, truthfully. Just when Gregar was going to write a letter back, his cousin Corbin entered the tent. “Gregar? The commander is looking for you.” Gregar looked at him with a confused look, but Corbin simply raised his shoulders. “Don't ask me why.” Gregar got up from the wobbly chair which leaned on the uneven dirt and grass and followed Corbin out of the tent, after which they walked to the commanders' tent together. “Any news of your father, Corbin?” Corbin shook his head. “I wrote my last letter barely a couple of days ago. He hasn't had time to respond.. and I think that the contents of the letter might've shaken him too much to respond straight away.” Gregar nodded, understanding what Corbin meant when he talked about the contents. “Yes, I have yet to write to my own family. The last days have been so hectic, and.. I could only sent them a letter notifying them of what happened. We will mourn when we get back.” Corbin responded with a nod as well, but shut his mouth for the rest of the walk. The closer they got to the commanders tent the more tense it got. It was almost as if there was a certain smell in the air that created the tension. As they arrived, they heard talking inside the tent. “Yeah, I sent the cousin to fetch him. Fuckin' Weade's. How big is their damn family anyway? I heard their father had 3 sons and that was about it. Nothin' like the Harrighfields. That Perris fucker has like 8 sons, and 12 daughters. Heard he married 'em all away to counts and earls in the Falklands, get some alliances going. His heir is a mean fucker' too. Those Weade's are gonna be in trouble if they actually go to war 'gainst Harrighfield. Anyway, what's taking that Gregar so fuckin' long.” Gregar moved the tent flaps aside and stepped inside, coughing to make his presence known. Shortly after Corbin followed inside, both with a straight face pretending they didn't hear what the commander had just said. Turning around, the commander came face to face with Gregar, a strong and charismatic man. The commander didn't seem to care, as he was his superior for the time being. That, and it seemed he held some grudge against the Weade's. “Ah, if it ain't the Weade sisters. I think I asked for Gregar, and not Corbin, but since yer' both here..” he said as he eyed Corbin with a glare that could spell death, “I guess I'll just let you both go on this small task I need to get done. Gregar, Corbin, go with my men to the village that lies over the hill and torch it.” Gregar didn't get why they would torch the village, since the king had already made a peace treaty with Harrighfield, and got what he wanted, namely access to the iron mine. There was no reason for the king to keep fighting. Still, orders were orders. Gregar and Corbin went outside, and found the 5 horsemen to their left. There were two horses readied for them, one brown and one brown with white spots. Either seemed like a fine horse, so Gregar just mounted the brown one since it was closest to him. Together with the horsemen they rode for the village, taking a small detour through a forest to 'mask their movements from prying eyes' according to one of the riders. Once they got to a small secluded spot in the forest however, the riders unmounted their horses and told Gregar and Corbin to follow suit, as they would approach on foot. As they got on their feet and tied the horses to a tree, they heard the sound of a crossbow being loaded and turned around. There they stood, 5 riders with weapons drawn against Corbin and Gregar. The rider in front grinned, and said to them with a gritty voice, “Lord Perrighfield would rather fight young and inexperienced Joakim, than a veteran like yourself, Gregar.” He wore a hauberk of chainmail and a kettle top hat, revealing his ugly face that resembled that of a pig in some ways. His companions were just about as ugly as he was, and Gregar could only guess these were in truth Harrighfields men, rather than those of the king. Corbin must've gotten to the same conclusion as he drew his sword from the hilt, and drew the shield from his back by pulling the leather string that held it there. Gregar followed suit, drawing his sword and grabbing his shield from his horses saddle, after which he took a step back to align himself with Corbin. The two of them locked eyes with their 5 enemies, who seemed to have a big advantage. Three of the riders slowly walked closer, while the crossbowman and supposed leader of the group stayed back, waiting for the job to be finished. The first of the three lunged forwards with his sword, swinging it wildly from his shoulder down onto Gregar, who very simply and swiftly blocked the strike with his shield and counter attacked with his sword, stabbing at the man but missing as the man quickly sidestepped. Corbin was tied up with another rider meanwhile, trading blows back and forth with the man, swinging at his legs and arms. Gregar was forced to take on two riders at once, and decided that he should be very defensive for that exact reason. He would only attack after blocking, taking a swing or stab at the man, mostly aiming for the center of his body or his arms, so that he could disarm him quickly. After exchanging blows with his main attacker, he finally got in a strike as the man stepped forward to attack Gregar but got his strike parried. His friend, seeing a moment to support the other rider, struck at Gregar too, but found his strike blocked by the shield. Meanwhile, Gregar used the momentum he got from the parry to slash the man's wrist open, cutting the main artery and forcing the man to drop his weapon. The man got a desperate look in his eyes as he watched his arm, grabbing it and attempting to stop the bleeding. But he knew he was dead and the life slowly faded from his face. Swiftly moving from the first man, Gregar slashed at the other riders arm but missed, and was forced to take a step back and block a strike. Meanwhile Corbin was still fighting the other rider, who had proven to be a proficient fighter. Corbin was no pushover however, and fought with equal skill. Gregars shield splintered a bit as the man hit it with his mace, but this gave him an opportunity as he suddenly went offensive, pushed the shield into the man and pushing him over. Not taking any risk, Gregar immediately stabbed the man's stomach. Looking at Corbin he noticed that Corbin was slowly being driven away from Gregar, no doubt to minimize the chances of him helping Gregar or vice versa. However now that Gregar was free for a moment, he sprinted towards Corbins' attacker. Corbin himself suddenly yelled out at Gregar, pointing his sword at the crossbowman while blocking a strike with his shield. However, it was much too late. The crossbowman fired, and struck true. Gregar fell to the ground, his right leg punctured in the shins by a bolt. Corbin killed his attacker and rushed over to help Gregar. Meanwhile the two remaining riders quickly ran for their horses, mounting up and riding away towards the camp again. No doubt they were unwilling to take on Gregar and his companion, as their leader seemed more like a talker than a fighter. “Corbin, get my horse. We need to leave.” Being helped up by Corbin sped up the process as he supported him while they walked to their horses and mounted up. They drove away through the forest, riding at the fastest speed they could for the nearby bridge to the Forklands, where they would be somewhat safe. Perhaps the lord of the Forklands would offer them hospitality and a physician, as there was no way Gregar could ride all the way back to the Whitelands with a wound such as his. “Damn Harrighfield..” Gregar whispered through his teeth, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. They would arrive at the Fordkeep within a day, and no doubt would the lord wish to see them. How the man would respond, however, was another thing..

The washed out noon day sun shone through the trees, tall pines the only thing that thrived in this stark land. Two figures made their way silently through the forest, in the practiced but entirely at ease in the manner those familiar with the woods had. One padded along on all fours, while the other stalked along on two feet. The pair taking silent cues from each other as they went, he with his keen nose led the way while she tracked their targets passage. The woman motioned for them to stop as she knelt to observe the tracks; they told her at least three men on horseback had come by maybe more if they rode light and double, but she knew that was not so. A day earlier she’d been sitting at her favourite seat in Wintershouses’ one and only tavern, listening to the gossip of the soldier’s passing through and they told of a band of men stealing from the local farmers, and so she found herself on their very trail. Only a few hours back she’d passed by a burnt out barn still smouldering, it’s owners had been distraught the farmer injured and the women treated unjustly. She’d had a horse then too but had given it to them so they could make their way to Wintershouse and appeal for compensation with a letter penned in her own hand, as the acting huntsmen for Duke Rikard in her father’s absence she had such rights. Now she only hoped the men before her would stop soon keeping up with men on horseback was no easy task. The pair moved onward stepping lightly over a frozen stream following the ever clearer passage of the horses. Soon the four legged one perked up nose twitching excitedly. “What is Hairy, are we close?” Asked the cloaked figure, he growled softly in assent. The pair spread out wordlessly knowing what to do, stepping with even greater care. Soon she too could smell them, a combination of woodsmoke, meat cooking and unwashed bodies. She drew her longbow from within her cloak and nocked an arrow to it in one deft motion. First the pair circled around the camp, the three men sat before the fire one tending to cooking and the other two drinking out of leather waterskins, by the sweet smell not full of water. The horses, picketed a short way from the camp noticed them and one whinnied but a soft hand and a whispered word put them at ease. Hairy slipped round to the opposite side of the camp as she stepped forth from the trees. The one tending the food noticed her first, and stood up scrabbling for his weapon resting beside him. The other two looked around bewildered at first but soon saw her too and drew their weapons also. “Who goes there?” one asked gruffly, by the looks of it he was the leader of this little band, his longsword of superior quality, an officer once perhaps. She kept her cloak’s hood up half drawing her arrow then answered, “Lady Briala Chesfield, acting Lord Huntsmen in service to Duke Rickard the Just, Lord of Wintershouse and Rightful Heir of the Whitelands,” She announced grandly, she never enjoyed this bit, but if you had to do it do it right her father always said. The group glanced at each other before breaking out in laughter, “You’re just a girl,” the leader said. “We don’t be taken orders from ‘im anymore,” the cook spoke up. Briala sighed dramatically, Hairy taking his cue slipped out of the trees behind them growling the third man, who had not spoken yet turned to face him, but even standing still it was clear he’d been drinking the most an easy target. “I would suggest you put you weapons down now gentlemen,” Briala told them, “Hairy strongly dislikes when you point them around,” The drunken one was easily cowed and began to lower his weapon but the leader spoke up before he dropped it. “We’ll do no such thing missy; I suggest you leave now before things get messy,” He warned her, brandishing his sword. Before the group knew what was happening the leader yelped in pain, his sword hitting the ground with a soft thunk. The other two looked at their leader holding his former sword arm an arrow pierced his wrist, the head having passed right through. The drunken one knowing his chances were slim smartly dropped his sword and raised his arms. Unfortunately for the cook he decide to take his chances and charged at Briala. Hairy leaped to action biting deep into the man’s leg. The pair crashed to the ground Hairy’s teeth still buried deep in the cooks leg. Briala stood before them another arrow drawn and at the ready. “By the laws of the Whitelands I place you under arrest for crimes committed in Duke Rikard’s lands, your fates to be decided by before the court at Wintershouse.” She told them as she gathered some strong rope from her belt. Hairy growled over the miserable lot guarding her as she bound their hands, and then bound them all together. She spent a while going through their belongings taking what might be useful and what was clearly stolen would be returned to their owners if at all possible, she kicked out the fire and took a small amount of the meat leaving the rest for Hairy to enjoy. Once the camp had been thoroughly ransack she untied the rope binding the three men together and with her sharp knife, and Hairy’s teeth to deter them from anything stupid. She led them one by one onto the horses forcing two of them to ride double and tied them in the saddle and then tied the horses lead ropes to the third horse. Briala mounted the horse in one swift practiced motion; fortunately her tutors had seen fit to teach her to ride though she did not ride as she had been taught, proper and lady like. They set off slowly allowing the horses to warm up, first at a walk and then a ground-eating trot. Instead of following the trail back she took a detour to well-travelled path, passing by a few farmers and their carts off to some market or another. She gave them all a friendly nod as they went by but an odd sight it must have been three men tied up behind her their only guard a woman and a dog. A while later they reached Wintershouse as they rode in the people parted before her many recognized Briala and shouted friendly greetings, after all this time many still idolized her it helped that she had spent time cultivating such feeling getting to know the townsfolk on a more personal level than many other nobles. Soon she made it to Wintershouse itself and ordered some guards to take care of the men she had captured. Briala and Hairy led the now riderless horse to the stables, handing them over to Tim the stable boy. Hairy perked up tail wagging his job now done he reverted to the puppyish behaviour he had around Tim his true master. “How’d it go Bri you get ‘em?” asked the boy keeling down to pat Hairy and clean his still bloody muzzle with a rag. “Them farmers already came through a while ago Jessie’s in ‘is stall,” He said before Briala could reply. “Thanks Tim, can you see to these and make sure the quartermaster gets their saddlebags too,” She untied one of the bags, heaviest and reached into it pulling out two fat silver coins and gave them to the boy, whose perpetual grin grew even wider. With that Briala continued onto the keep the heavy bag on her shoulder weighing her down, but she would never ask for help. A servant came running up to her breathless saying, “Lady Briala there’s been news…” Taking a moment to catch his breath before continuing, “Duke RIkard’s fallen in battle, Lord Gregar is the new duke, which means you’re going new Lord’s Hunts—woman,” He told her stumbling over the title. Briala didn't know whether to cry or be happy, where was her father? He had left with Rikard yet there had been no news of him, she handed the heavy bag to the servant who visibly drooped under its weight and told him to take it to whoever dealt with money, unable to in her dazed state to remember who that was. For the next week she spent most of it in her rooms and the rest at the tavern hoping vainly for any news of her father. The days went by and Wintershouse filled up with nobles and dignitaries of all sorts but she kept herself scarce. When finally the day of the meeting came she was as calm and collected as ever, she dressed in her best set of legging and jerkin over the top her heavy cloak clasped with her families’ sigil, the Chesfields weren’t a big family but they were well known. At the meet she stood on Joakim’s left side to the rear but high enough about it all to watch all the nobles’ faces having grown up in Wintershouse she recognized most from their past visits, others were entirely new, representatives of those at campaign or fallen in battle. She said nothing during the meeting merely stood and observed, it was not her place. When Joakim addressed her almost as an aside, she nodded and brushed past him slipping a note into his clothes, it read: Should you have need of me send word, not all these men are your friends, do not forget. There are eyes and ears all around. She couldn’t speak openly but she could do this little thing, even if they were never close she had a duty to protect him. He likely wouldn’t find it until he stopped for the night. After she retired to her rooms, her best clothes would look out of place in the rowdy tavern. She also removed the cloaks’ clasp that identified her as nobility to a plainer one. After changing she reached the tavern and took a seat to the rear of the room, beside the fire and Josie the barmaid as bouncy as ever brought over an ale with a smile, then raced off to serve some other customers in the busy tavern. All wore different liveries of some lord or another too many to name but if pressed she knew them all. It was still early, for now most of the patrons seemed well behaved so she sat and drank occasionally chatting amicably to the few regulars that knew her.

Urik reclined uncomfortably in his sear, fingers turning over and over again a small piece of parchment which had been discreetly passed along to him. Pausing, he slipping the tiny furl open to once again read its contents before returning to his previous course of flipping the document over repeatedly. What had just occurred was truly unfortunate, a grave error on the part of all involved. Plots had been set into motion preemptively and as a result they were now quickly spiraling out of his control. The note in Urik's hand contained information related to the assassination attempt which had, not just a number of days ago been enacted against the life of Duke Gregor. Obviously if it was ever discovered that he had become involved in such a plot his life and property would have become forfeit. Luckily enough the attempt had failed in such a spectacular fashion as to actually prove advantageous: all of the men who knew about it were now dead. And by the Duke's hand no less. Giving a heavy sigh the accountant reached across his desk for a nearby candle, lifting the flame to the parchment, burning all evidence of his involvement. For some the failure of the first attempt would have left them smarting, perhaps it would have even inspired a bit of fear in them. What would happen the next time? For Urik it simply meant that the next attempt would need to be leveraged with considerably more gusto. The good marquis was not the only man involved in the plot. On the contrary there were political constituents across the borders in the Iron Hills which would have benefited equally from the death of the new lord. They were Urik's sometimes collaborators, though, in all fairness it was not as if the marquis did not have his hand in more than a dozen other controversial jars, not the least of which were the Forklands, Whiteland's long time allies. Yes, Urik had decided. Gregor would have to be stopped regardless of the imminent political danger such an action might cause. The last time he'd chosen stupid soldiers who were just as happy to kill a noble for a couple of coins as a commoner. He had been relying on their commonality to provide them a good deal of surprise. Now the Duke knew that someone was attempting against his life, now the marquis could freely call upon more insidious and efficient organizations. . . Valeria leaned back a little in her saddle, the shift in weight aimed principally in alleviating her buttocks of the ache of so many miles of riding. The purpose and goal of her journey was simple; she'd set out from the Iron Hills after her latest round of conquests intent now of finally finding a master worthy of her considerable skills. She was young to be sure, but that did not stop her from possessing an overflowing confidence that continually spurned her onward to greater and greater things. With a soft jab to the flanks of her trusty mount, Lowen, the knight approached the center of the sprawling Forklands capital. Today Valeria had deigned to remain without the aide of her armor, without the additional tons it seemed to add to her weight, the further burden of many pounds of steel and iron on a ride of many hours. Instead she dressed commonly, adorned in garments that made her appear as more a middle-class merchant's daughter than a mighty and noble feudal warrior. The change in clothing suited her fancy, at least this way she would not be bombarded by constant pleas to handle this or that problem on the way to her meeting with the duke of the realm; she needed to keep her finest clothes for parties regardless. Upon approaching the castle gates the guards there demanded her dismount and the knight willingly obliged, producing for the hesitant men her patents of nobility. At first the guards were skeptical, though, under some pressure form her threats and the weight of the classist caste system in which they lived Valeria was able to successfully bluff her way through the gates. Once inside she met dutifully with the castle steward and was assigned quarters according to her station. Throughout the hall her cunning eyes spied the traces and personages of other knights and squires-in-waiting, yes, this was the place she could truly make her name.

The comforting caress of the morning hum of Fordkeep rose Rufus with soft stroke of the eardrums. Throughout the castle could be heard the distant muffled voices of the resident workers, and outside a horse grunted and children laughed and cried at each-other. For a brief moment two young boys drifted past the tall window of Rufus' bedroom; with a faint smile creasing his lips he watched the two children swinging swords at each-other, yelling mock insults while diving to the floor with childish enthusiasm. The warmth that the scene gave his heart lasted only for a few seconds before it was lost to the lesson his father had taught him: His memory was cast aside when familiar footsteps proceeded towards Rufus' bedroom - a knock followed suit and Rufus acquired his usual morning attire before replying, "Who is it?" Of course, he already knew, but in Fordkeep it is good manners to have good manners. His wife turned the door handle and made her way through, into Rufus' room. Though her dress had changed, her humble smile had not faltered in the 24 hours that had passed. "My Lord," she bagan, "there is a matter which requires your attention. Two men - injured and in need of shelter - arrived at our gates earlier this morning." Rufus, unable to recall anyone he knows directly who could be in danger, assumed that the two men were travellers of the land - merchants, pilgrims, or serfs of some some sort. "In what condition are they?" asked he with concerned frown upon his lips. "I am unsure, My Lord. Guard Relman was at the gate at the time of their arrival and received them. He told me only that one had been injured by a bolt. Of the other he did not speak." Rufus' wife, pastoral in all respects, had been attending to the mechanisms of the keep since the early hours of the morning. For this Rufus owed respect. "I trust they've been accommodated and seen to by a doctor?" "Yes, My Lord. A room has been given to them free of charge by The Fox's Feathers, and the medicinal treatment recommended for them by a surgeon is being gathered as we speak." Rufus nodded and left the matter at that. Guard Relman would likely have not recognised the two men and, in his panic as a new recruit, led them to a room without a word and left it at that. It would be some time until Rufus recognises who exactly his keep hosts - more specifically, who The Fox's Feathers hosts. "Ah, brother Louis!" "You requested my presence, brother?" said Louis, standing beside Rufus as he drifted through a bookshelf. Rufus pulled a leather bound book from the shelf and skimmed through the pages as he spoke. "Are we advancing with the search for a Knight?" asked he. "Yes, brother. We have had a number arrive at the gates in the last days. Some I have seen before - others, however, I am uncertain of their origins. I pray they come here with honest intentions." Rufus stopped on a particular page opens studied it quietly for a moment. "Louis, dear brother," he began, "there is something that I must ask of you." "It is the will of Acristies that I abide by our bond, brother," came the reply. Acristies the Loyal, in Forklandish theology, is the brother of God who abided by his every command even in the face of death - it is a rule that all in the land live by, not least the nobles. "When I.." for the first time in months that Rufus can remember, he faltered. "When I am granted passage, I pray you continue to rule as I have done." Louis laughed - not a bellow or a giggle, but just a snicker as if expecting a punchline. "Brother, what so presses you to speak of death? You and I are healthy, and by the will of God have many years left." Although Louis feigned a smile throughout, his brother's sudden retort of death struck a delicate nerve, one that had been dormant since the death of his parents. "Yes, yes, of course. I just wanted to assure myself." Rufus, too, appreciated the usefulness of a fake smile every so often. "Now, tell me about our prospective Knights. Do any seem favourable?" "There is one - a woman," began Louis. "My men tell me she is of noble blood. I have heard nothing of her, but in passing I believe she has offered a wave. The servants provided a room in the ground-chambers - since then, she has rarely been seen." Rufus considered. "A woman, you say? I should tell you that I have been searching for a suitable woman for you, Louis. Mind you, a knight is far from the best choice - they tend to have very broad shoulders!" Rufus chuckled to himself. "Can you request her presence to me? I should like to give her a formal welcome. I shall be here for the next hour or so if it pleases her to see me." Louis abided and left upon his brother's request. Five minutes had passed and Rufus found himself sitting at the desk in his library, holding the very same book he had collected during his conversation with Louis. His eyelids flickering, he quickly opened to the page he had been searching for: A sigh escaped Rufus' dry lips as he closed the book. His suspicions had been confirmed. It had happened once, and only once. At first, he believed it to be a message from God, but if that was so then God made no sense to him. No, it was that morning that, while he dined on his breakfast, faintly he heard a whisper - a gentle breeze in his ear.... "Peace will not last. Save your people."

Gregar went under the knife, for several hours. Much to his surprise the local liegelord hadn't come yet to greet them, or capture or murder him for that matter. They were in the Forklands, but none of the other dukes had declared a support for either side of the newfound conflict between the Whitelands and Ironhills. But it seems that the local lord hadn't taken much of an interest him. None the less, the procedure the local physician underwent on him was.. painful, to say the least. Trying his best to maintain a composure, he gritted his teeth before a nearby assistant to the physician handed him a wood piece to bite into. Never the less, when the physician started pulling out the remaining parts of the bolt, Gregar couldn't help but let out a scream as he experienced heavy pains. The entire procedure lasted well over two hours, and Corbin was sent away to organize their stuff and put their new horses in the stable. He might be noble of blood, but he was still a subject to Gregar, despite their common blood. He was handed a crutch, crudely made of a large branch with a split end, another branch attached between them to lean on. Gregar was told to rest and to retire to his chambers but he had other plans. Hobbling through the maze of hallways, he ended up in the courtyard again where he walked around for a short while, enjoying the sight of working people walking around and doing their bussiness. It seemed people here did not recognise him, as the tales of ser Gregar the Oakenheart often portrayed him in a much different manner. After some time of wandering, observing the working people and the occasional talk with a craftsman, he decided to head into the main halls where he bumped into Corbin. “I'm going to the duke to appeal for safe passage in his lands and some fresh horses. Care to join me?” Corbin didn't seem to mind, so followed Gregar after all. As far as anyone knew, they were just a few of the people who had come to the Forklands in search of employment as a knight. They fit in perfectly, after all, with their armor and swords. As they hobbled around, they stumbled upon the library per accident, taking in some time to look around before Gregar would approach the center desk where the duke, lord Rufus would be seated. As he approached slowly, leaning on his crutch, he'd cough softly. “Lord Rufus.” His voice would be somewhat loud, clear and definetely impose some form of respect, however that all depended on how the duke would respond to him. “I was attacked by lord Perrighfields' men in a setup, while returning to my lands to defend what is rightfully mine. The men were slain, but not before I was shot with a bolt. You have my gratitude for giving me the treatment I needed, and your hospitality is certainly a trait that you should cherish.” Gregar would look at the man more directly now, rather than looking at the man's surroundings, such as what the man was reading. He couldn't make out what book he had, but continued none the less. “However, since I find myself in your keep, I'd have to request you grant me and my companion and cousin Corbin a safe passage through your lands. I'd also want to request to trade my two horses for two of yours, fresh and ready to ride.” There was something else on Gregar's mind too, but he didn't dare ask for an alliance right now after asking the man for an escort and two fresh horses. --- At the tavern near the Wintershouse All the men were drinking heavily, and more heavily as the night progressed. Some had passed out drunk, laying on the table asleep, faces burried in whatever food was in front of them. The others were drinking, dancing, and appeasing several harlots and whores, who all seemed to be enjoying their company. However there were definetely two camps in the tavern, the left side being primarily men of the most powerful count amongst the counts, count Norlan, the other side having mostly soldiers from the two counts, both from the same family, count Ulfrik and Sicbert. These two families had been feuding for years before Rikard intervened, and while the bloodshed stopped, the tensions hadn't. It was for that reason that at one point, a soldier from Ulfrik's armies stood up and started a fight with a soldier from count Norlan, whom he referred to as 'traitor.' The rest being drunk as they were, simply stared, laughed and cheered for their side. However, the innkeeper looked at Briala as if he was asking her to intervene before they ruined the tavern.

Corbin brushed the stallion that bore his cousin. The horse was still skittish, but it was to be expected. Most horses didn't like the sent of blood. Then there were the war horses like this one got antsy at the smell. War horses were quite vicious. The young man sighed and leaned against the horse. The stallion barely wavered as he shifted his balance. Corbin ached. His thoughts swirled mainly around Gregar and how he was faring. He had seen men die from lesser wound. It was only by God's grace that his cousin hadn't bleed to death on the journey. The rest of Corbin's thought were to the betrayal. Was the King apart of it? Or just their Sargent? They had expected the Ironhills to make some play, but to have men from the Whitelands help them? That was nigh unbelievable. Corbin groaned as he peeled himself off the horse, patting the stallion to sooth him. "It's going to be alright." He told the horse, but was trying to convince himself. Even if Gregar lived their lives had just because so much more complicated. They couldn't rush back to their homes without finding out if the King had a hand in their betrayal. Likewise that they needed to find the traitor. The two of them alone would surely fail. They needed help. And they needed to trust whomever it was. Sadly the latter was something neither of them could take the time to afford. Corbin patted the stallion once last time before he left the stables. He swayed slightly as he walked, exhausted from the trials, but he couldn't rest until he was sure Gregar would be fine. He had expected to find his cousin in best resting and not wandering around. He told his cousin as much, but willing went with him to see the duke. He had to bite his tongue as he watched Gregar hobble. Determination was well and good until it got you killed. The young man waited patiently as Gregar spoke to the Duke about receiving aid.