Marches of Man

---

For a while the kingdom of Broacien had been calm - the king, Gregar Balin Grochain had bartered a temporary peace treaty with Cherwin, in name of the lord of the Witches Crest. As such the west was calm, as was the east. In the south, redsand and it's mighty castle Coedwin stood strong against the Sultan's forces, who hadn't been seen in a few years. Never the less the threat remained. As for the north, the answer was simple; the tribes were always at war and there was always coin to be made out of that. The arms trade with the north continued as it always has, despite lady Aren's, otherwise known as the Winters Wife, calls to stop feeding the bloodshed. More recently, there has been talk of a tribal sympathist amongst the Broacienian royals. Not something that would interrupt the calmth, but something that was to be kept in mind by the nobles and other high ups who wished to further their influence.

However, in Broacien there is never much time for calmth and peace - almost as soon as the temporary peace had been signed, Cherwinian brigands crossed the border into Murkran territories and started attacking boats sailing down the Pentol river. Normally they'd be dealt with by Broacienian forces adequately, meaning the brigands would be hunted down and executed on the spot, save the leaders who would be brought to the Hoffburgt to face judgement from the king himself. However an untimely Cherwinian intervention on behalf of their king, Rechwan. Two companies of the Cherwinian army crossed the many many Murkran rivers and met with the brigands, whilst simultaneously the two companies sent by king Gregar did the same. Ultimately the two armies clashed with the brigands joining the ranks of the Cherwinian army.

The battle of Priscen Cross, named after the crossing in two small rivers where the battle took place, was a bloody and long battle. Cherwinian forces seemed to dwindle but at the last moment a detachement of knights arrived and charged the ranks of the Broacienian soldiers, shattering the ranks and forcing them on the retreat. The results of this amounted to a slaughter on the Broacienian sides, with barely any men surviving. The few that did were either taken captive or managed to escape to the Hoffburgt. An unofficial record from the Cherwinian forces say that there were atleast 400 men captured, and over 3000 dead. An offer to buy back the prisoners, a welcome offer at this point in time with a decrease in manpower, has yet to be extended by king Rechwan. It seems that the peace lasted barely 30 days before the Cherwinians broke it.

“My king, you summoned me?” a harsh, old sounding voice said. It was clearly the voice of a man that wasn't too old, but had seen his share of life and was most definetely experienced and well versed in how to live it. In the throne, king Gregar was seated, looking down on his hall from the raised plateau where the throne with the stags antlers was placed. The hall was filled with people, easily in the ranges of a hundred people if not more. They were from all breeds and profesions, from old noble men to young knights looking to prove their worth, to young noblewomen to the lowly servants. They all looked attentively to the front, where an old bald man was kneeling with his head bowed down low. “Yes, Terryn Hoffmann, I summoned you.”

In response the bald headed man, named Terryn, looked up at the king with a questioning expression. The king raised his voice again, which bounced off the walls of the hall effortlessly. The hall consisted of stone walls and similar flooring, with six large pillars lining the hall. There were three on each side, supporting the balconies on the second level. On the second level there were also people, looking down on the ordeal. It had been a long time since the king had held an open audience. They intended to profit from the occasion.

“What would you wish of me, my king?” the old man asked his king, who bowed his head in thought. A silence befell the hall before the king spoke up. “You were at the battle of Priscen Cross, correct?” The old man remained silent but nodded his head at the king. Aye, he had been there. A sad day for Broacien, but they would recover. “Tell me what happened there, that day, Terryn.” The old man bowed his head and answered with a silent “Yes, milord.” Slowly he began raising from his knees, his bones cracking ever so slightly as he raised himself from the uncomfortable position. The greatsword on his back swayed slightly as he finally stood straight again. “It was a massacre, my king.” Terryn started, a simple, short answer that anyone in the room would understand. But no doubt they already knew this fact. They were looking for details. Heroic stories of last stands, of knights taking down a famous knight before their deaths. Sadly, there would be no such tales. The Cherwinian death toll had barely broken 500, before the ranks broke.

“The day started early. We marched from the Witches' Crest towards the brigands hiding spot, near the Priscen Cross. It was around noon when our commander, lord Hamel, warned us of incoming foreign troops. He didn't anticipate an attack however. I'm sure the Cherwinians didn't either. As far as they knew they were clearing out a brigand infestation.” The tale was the truth, which could be heard in Terryn's tale. There was no tremble, no holding back in his voice. It all spilled from his lips in a solid gush of truths. It was either that, or Terryn was a trained liar. The scars on his face led many to believe the former, however.

“When we engaged the brigands, they had joined ranks with the Cherwinians. It seemed there had been some under the table dealing between our first meeting and the moment of our attack. We held the line, barely, and inflicted damage. That's when the enemy lord Peryl appeared on the horizon with a count of 50 knights, give or take. They ran down and ran into our center, shattering it with a single charge opening the way for their infantry. We were cut down like dogs. Before our lord could sound the horn of retreat, he was cut down. Those that had survived that long either surrendered or held their breath and hid in the swamps for the time being, pretending to be dead.” A gasp, a whince of terror, it was all that went through the hall in that moment of silence. A glass falling, shattering on the stone floor. In that moment all eyes were pointed at Terryn, even the king's. And for a moment, it felt like the king was a comrade, and not a king. But Terryn knew that feeling to be false, as he had felt it before.

“I am sorry my king. Did you wish me to deliver news of deeds heroic and mighty? I am afraid I cannot tell you tales that are untrue. The men that fought there died fighting. That is about all I can say.” The king nodded slowly, understandingly, and waved the comment away with his right hand. After doing so he would grip his chin and stroke his beard slowly, deep in thought.

“No harm done, Terryn. I have an order for you. I'll place you under the command of lord Maryn Tyerin. You will be second-in-command of the Black Shields. You shall begin recruitment within the week.” Terryn almost looked like he hadn't understood, as he stood there gawking at the king like a lowly peasant who had just heard he'd be receiving a year worth of beer for free. Slowly his mouth opened. “M-my king..” Terryn dropped to his knees again and bowed his head, deep and low. “My thanks, your grace!”

---

A Week Later

It was raining, and had been raining almost all day. The ground was muddy, making the encampment of Rot Donar almost unwalkable. The camp was relatively small, barely fitting 65 tents, with a large circular tent at the center of it. The Commanders Tent as the noblemen called it, the Executioners Home as the peasants called it. There was some disdain amongst the militias and would-be soldiers that arrived in the camp against the commanders. It was only natural, they would be dying or living at the hands of these men. Their trust had to be earned.

In front of the Commanders Tent, under the small covered area near the tent's approach, was a table with a chair behind it. On the table was an oil lamp, a book and a quill and some inkpots. Inside the books there were numerous names scribbled, or sometimes a simple X. Many of the lower born people could not write, and as such an X had to suffice. A wooden walkway led from the camp's entrance, through the palisade, towards the tent. It would be the primary signing up point, and as such Terryn was sitting behind the table with his greatsword resting against it on his left. He looked bored or intrigued, which were in his case mostly the same expressions. He enjoyed watching the crowd come and go, however, as each person was interesting. He liked to play a game where he estimated how long people would survive in battle - something he'd become quite good at. For some cases he'd tell them during their sign up and offer them a bet that if they lasted longer than the days he told them, he'd give them a small prize in the form of a bag of coins. Money was worthless when you were on the move moving from battle to battle anyway, so he might as well have fun with it.

Besides recruits, he was also busy dealing with the various camp followers, whores, cooks, salesmen and women, hunters and others that followed a warband around hoping to make a sale or two. Furthermore he was also dealing with shady slave traders, that had been looking to sell slaves for a bargain in order to lose their last few slaves. The slaves were always happy to be sold to a warband as they'd probably be busy cooking or moving boxes around. An easy life when compared to those that got sold to fishermen, who had to row boats all day. Or even those sold to lords. You'd never know what you had to do when sold to a lord or lady. There were even some tales of a lady that bought slaves to use as sex objects - only to be discarded a week later. An expensive hobby, Terryn thought to himself. He wouldn't mind having that hobby if he could afford it however. A new slave girl every week? Pleasure. Except Terryn probably couldn't discard them. He was much too kind to women to do that. They'd probably end up taking most of his money just to afford their upkeep.. perhaps it was better Terryn wasn't rich.

“NEXT.” he yelled at the line in front of him. He just hoped the line would move along more swiftly than this, or else he'd have to halt his little game and place a man at arms on the chair to do the signups.

---

At The Hoffburgt

“Father, mother.” a young male voice said. Anyone familiar with the royal family would be able to discern that it was Dorran, the King's Heir. There were rumours of him being in the east, visiting a castle near the mountain to look for a suitable bride. A feminine voice answered the boy, “Dorran, how good to see you. How was your travel? Did the rain bother you much?” No reply, only a shake of the head. The king's voice now spoke up. “Enough about the rain. Did you like lady Elysa?”

Dorran hesitated to answer, and through doing so, made his father and mother realize the answer before hand. “She has an interesting personality. She.. begged me to show me her collection of male servants. I have a hard time believing you didn't know of this before hand, father.” His father grinned and put his head in his hands, leaning on them with his forehead. “I had hoped she wasn't as bad as she was years ago when I first met her. I suppose she got worse. Perhaps I should stop sending you around.”

Doran let loose a relieved sigh. No more travelling.. wonderful. “I will hold a feast and invite many lords and their daughters and sons. Perhaps you will find someone you like, then. She will be the future queen after all.” his father continued, indicating that his sigh had come too early. Never the less it was better than travelling through the rain, Dorran supposed. And feasts were.. fun? “Very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I wish to go visit Catarina.”

Earlier, in Coedwin

"Saddles all packed... nice and sturdy. Damn, what a fine mare." The man speaking was almost talking to himself, not bothering any attention to the crowd of people behind him. They were all there bidding him farewell before he took off to Rot Donar.

"Think you'll be needing this too, Ser Wyk." A younger man held out a sheathed longsword and Ser Wyk turned from the mare to see what it was.

"Ah," he proclaimed. "What's a knight without his sword, eh boy?" Ser Warren Wyk grabbed the sword and strapped it to the horse. It was the final piece of adornment. "Kastan," Warren began, turning to look the young man in the eye, "you're a good lad. Promise me you and the boys will look after Coedwin and Redsand."

"Of course," Kastan quickly answered, "until you get back."

Warren laughed and shook his head, "doubt I'll be back, lad. This one here... this is the road to my final restin' place. If I do return, it'll be with the Black Shields, not the Raiders."

Kastan looked down, a bit disappointed. The mood amongst the other men was also quite solemn. They were watching their hero, commander, and mentor leave. Probably for good. "You sure you want to do this then? Coedwin could still use you. Maybe you don't have to go out and fight anymore. You're wisdom and guidance would be more than welcome."

"Kastan, boy, you know what they say about me-"

"You never give up, I know, ser."

Warren looked at each of the men gathered. They were esteemed men of Wyk's Raiders, free fighters who rallied under Warren Wyk in order to raid and repel bandits and men from the sultanate. He had fought beside them, trained them, and lead them for five years now. It wasn't a long time in most respects, but they had each become a brother to him. "Farewell, lads, do me proud." Warren grabbed onto his mare and pulled himself up.

His body heated up and he felt a lump forming in his throat, struggling to situate himself on the saddle. Warren began coughing, quite loudly and disgustingly before spitting out a great lump of thick blood on the sandy ground. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Kastan stepped forward, "I guess your sword wasn't the only thing you forgot," he said with a grin, holding up a rag with dried blood. "If you're going to fall off your horse and die, do it near a hole so we don't have to dig one," Kastan joked, laughing.

Warren couldn't help but laugh too, "damn you, boy," he said cheerfully. With a final wave, Warren turned his mare and trotted away. The horse neighed and took off into a light gallop, off to Rot Donar.

Current time, Rot Donar

The waiting was bad enough, but the rain made it worse. Rot Donar wasn't that big of a tent, but it promised a larger force than Wyk's Raiders ever was. Up ahead a man yelled "Next!" The line shifted forward and Warren took but one step before stopping again. Sighing, he looked around at the camp. Across the ways sat a few peasants, laughing and jeering and having a good time, obviously drunk. Least they got some ale, Warren thought. He also looked to the hitching post, making sure Beauty was still there, his mare.

A few more pitches of 'next' and Warren finally came upon Terryn Hoffmann, sitting behind a desk. He was obviously distinguishable by his facial appearance. Warren had heard enough about Terryn, being that he once served in Coedwin, just as Warren himself had been doing for the past six years. Perhaps they had even crossed paths at one point.

"Terryn Hoffmann," Warren said, grinning at the old man. He rubbed his thumb against his dark steel blade's hilt, sheathed on his side. "The name's Warren Wyk," he said, bending down to sign the form for Terryn. "You'll have to forgive my stance, my back's not as straight as it use to be." Warren tried standing as straight up as he could. "I served as a squire at Barren Hall. Then I served with the Blackblades until there disbandment. I've fought Cherwin in the past, when they invaded Broacien. I served King Gregar in his battle against the sultanate thereafter, before finally setting up in Redsand, where I've lead Wyk's Raiders out of Coedwin for the past five or so years. It'd be a honor to serve in the Black Shields." Warren nodded to the man and walked away from the desk. Time for some ale, he thought.

Earlier, on an Unnamed Road

"In the boozer
you’re a loser
if the dice you’re shaking."

Laurence, surprisingly, had found himself in the center of a group of prospective soldiers, all out from some village to the north, all going the same way he was. Both he and the villagers had welcomed the company, and they'd taken to each other like pigs to shit, despite initial wariness. He couldn't blame them honestly: even without the sword and armor, he still didn't look like good news, out on a road in the middle of some nowhere forest. He'd spotted a few of the older travelers, some looking to be near two score years old, instinctively reach towards the swords that hung from their belts, and he'd seen a few of the younger lads, one looking no older than 14, near shit themselves in that familiar mix of surprise and terror. He'd laughed it off, of course; Laurence knew that a man near seven feet tall was rarely good news, specially not one with more scars than hairs, and after a few words and jokes he'd fit himself right into their band.

"You’ll get hurt
and lose your shirt,
sit there cold and quaking."

Someone'd started a song, Laurence couldn't remember who, and now they were all singing with verve. Laurence's deep bass filled the narrow wooded pass to near bursting, and the pair of younger lads managed to get a proper counter-tenor going. They sounded quite good, Laurence thought, but then again most anything sounds good when you're the only folks for miles around, 'cept some outlaws, if you're unlucky. He figured the singing was more for keeping morale up on the road, seeing as all but a couple of these village folk'd ever been more than a few miles from their homes, and he doubted any of them'd served in a fighting outfit before, despite the instinctual wariness. Laurence had no such qualms with walking the roads, a decade and a half of soldiering making him harder to scare than most, least by squirrels and bushes. He joined in gamely though, enjoying the cheerful company. They'd talked initially about all sorts of things, once Laurence learned they'd be joining the Black Shields, same as him. A man named William did most of the important talking, the oldest by near half a decade and the most used to a fight by a sight more, clearly in charge of their expedition. The lads Hoff and Sim asked all sorts of questions about soldiering, and the rest of the group listened in with more interest than they were likely willing to admit.

"Lady Luck, your gifts are bad,
you trick us, then you make us mad,
make us gamble, make us fight,
and sit out in the cold all night.

He'd try to prepare them for what was coming, best he could. He knew most of his companions back in the Glass'd scare them half to death for a laugh, or maybe try to encourage them finding a new line of work, but Laurence figured honesty was the best policy, any man willing to come this far from his village not likely to go back over a few words. He told them that they were more likely to die from disease than an enemy most likely, and made sure to tell them three times to boil water, clean and bandage wounds with fresh cloth, and never pretend to not be unhealthy or hurt. His careful warnings soon made way to tall tales, which the ex-villagers had taken to with familiar enthusiasm, going after him with a few of their hamlet's particular folk tales, a few good ones about a haunted swamp and a woman who fought with a pair of tridents. The time passed quickly, and when they ran out of stories they started singing, Alexander passing around his last skin of liquor to welcome, parched hands. It was nothing near enough to get anyone but the lads drunk, but the warmth in the belly was more than welcome on the cold road.

"But now let’s roll the dice again
and win some drinking money!
Who thinks about November’s rain
while it’s still warm and sunny?"

Rot Donor

They'd reached Rot Doner after a half day of walking, and Laurence bid them farewell, promising to visit and drink again, and not really meaning it. They were good folks, certainly, but they weren't likely to last long, and weren't going to be the kind of folk a Guard veteran [or hero, hopefully] would be expected to associate with. If nothing else, the difference in their wages would make relations difficult as the campaign got on proper. They'd made to find storage and water, and Laurence made a beeline for the signups, after a quick stop to change and unpack.

He had his battle honors with him, but he needed to ensure that the officer didn't dismiss him out of hand as some up-jumped fyrdman. He thought for a second about donning his plate, but thought better of it. He'd look a fool, and would spend the better part of an hour getting it on and off for no real benefit. He did, however, brush some dirt off his gambeson and chain coat, and donned the both of them, their familiar weight a comfortable sensation. He unsheathed his sword from his horse, whose dull chestnut eyes looked weary from days of travel, but whose dull copper coat looked ready for days more. The sword was mirror-polished and massive, sharp and ready for action. Laurence had learned early that any man who does not take good care of his equipment deserves to be let down by it, and he'd been a happy part of that most peculiar of post-march rituals: mass cleaning of weapons. He'd seen men who'd done real black work preen over blades like a mother over a newborn, and he was one of them through and through. He hefted the sword over his shoulder, resting the ricasso on his shoulder and hoping that the sign-up tent was high enough for him to keep it the way it was. He figured it made him look even more imposing, which was most definitely a good thing when being assigned a position in a company. His small horse hitched to drink and rest, his battle honors in his pocket and his gear ready, he made his way to the tent.

As it happened, the tent was slightly too short for him to carry the sword over his shoulder without cutting an unwanted skylight, so he contented himself with holding it under the quillons with his burly left hand. The line was longer than he'd like, and after more "NEXT!"'s than he could count, he found himself in front of an old bald man, stooped over a table covered in papers. He'd heard the man called 'Terryn Hoffmann', and figured he'd do the same, despite never having heard of nor seen the man in his life.

"Terryn Hoffmann: Laurence Attewood, former sergeant of the Glasshorn Company, Greatsword Guards". He gestured with his free hand to his sword slightly. "Looking to enlist, ser. I served all four defenses of Redsand, and the capture as well. Fought at Brindled Mire, Callpike Hill, Dunbreck Forest and plenty more, if yer need.". He wrote his name and made his mark, thankful that he knew that much at least. He couldn't read a word, but he'd managed to teach himself how to write his own name. Two-Trees taught him first, but after two months he was told that he'd actually been writing "Pig Shit", and found himself a new teacher. A nod to the bald man, and he left, carrying his weapon with him in search of a stiff drink and a warm fire.

“There is still time! We can still turn around!” shouted Saewine to his father's retainer. The knight brought his four serfs to a stop, the horses snorted abruptly, melding their sounds with the heavy noise of Rot Donar. It bumbled in his ears with trying persistence. Not to mention his ropes were finally beginning to chafe against his wrist and arms.

Richard's sterling armor joined the noise as he approached. “Sae, ease yourself. Do not look foolish in the midst of others. It is a sure way to get yourself killed.”

A loud hmp! could be heard from a serf behind him. Saewine only shot the lad a toothy frown. “Let 'em be, Lord Richard. The boy obviously fears for his life,” he jested with a short chuckle. Richard shot the man a warning glare; the laughter was cut to a mute. “Know your place. You still speak to your better! Don't let the comforts of the field make you forgetful.”

Saewine would have normally reveled in such a show … but now all he could do was think of his untimely death. Angst held his heart in a tight grip, though it pounded crashingly in his ears. The feeling of his heaving chest was especially insignificant when met with the hectic crowd surrounding him. He had no idea how long he had sat there.

“I-I ,” He gulped deeply and let loose powerful breath. “I'm going to die here, Richard. Please let me go! let me escape! Give me a chance!” he pleaded lowly.

Richard's eyes fell as he finished untying his ropes and unstrapping his feet from the saddle's sitrrups. Saewine refused to move from his place on the horse. For several seconds Richard waited but on the fifteenth count, he reached up and snatched him off. Saewine tumbled to the ground, dirtying his cream tunic with fresh, moist, mud. “Richard! Have you gon-”

“Shut your mouth, Sae. You are no longer a protected nobleman … you are not at your Keep anymore. Has that not sunk in yet? You've bartered and bitched the whole way here. Looking for escape … but don't you see, there is none. You are stuck here. No warrior wants a juvenile protecting their back. You must man up.”

Embarrassment left Saewine brooding in the dirt; rain pelting his dirtied face. Beyond his dark eyes laid a child tossed aside but his countenance was a scorned grimace. He pushed himself up after a minute of enduring the serf's snickers. “Fine. All of you are whoresons. Bastards that would sooner die like beggars than compare to even a inch of what I'am! I don't need you or your help. Go drop dead on some battlefield for all I care!”

A chuckle or two eased into the air. “Sooner you than us aye?” countered a serf.

Slowly, he sauntered off towards the twisting and ever-moving crowd. It was all he could do to keep from sprinting pass them and humiliating himself even further. For he knew Richard would sooner drag him behind his horse than fail his father. Deeper in and he could hear the loud banging of hammer on metal. The chatter became clearer and none of it was anything less than vulgar. Humidity stuck his black strands to his face, making his wet hair feel greasy for reasons unknown to him.

Inside of a circular tent, Saewine waited with glancing eyes for a opening. He had taken notice of two serfs following him; Richard was sure to be close by. He felt there was no way out but he'd try anyway. Looking around, he started to step out of the line but just as he did, a pair of burly hands gripped his shoulders and held him in place. “M-Mind removing your poor smelling hands!” He struggled furiously.

The man tightened his grip, his large arms was marked with scorch marks and black stains. “ 'Orry, kidde. But that nice Knight ova der paid me to keep you in line. It was quite a bit--so I'm obliged to follow orders.”

Tsk! The man's accent was strong but Saewine had gotten the gist of it. He was officially stuck. Head low and frowning, after awhile, Saewine was next. Without a word—and a bit of hesitation—he beautifully wrote his name on the sheet and departed. Next he looked, Richard and the serfs were gone.

“Fuck. Me.”

He was alone in the rain, the shifting recruits blaring behind him.

The rain was pelting down on her body relentlessly and the young fortune teller had grown weary of it. The row to the commanders tent stretched out to the far end of the camp and from what she could tell she wasn't even halfway there. She let out a frustrated sigh and continued to walk onwards stomping the ground with unnecessary force. All it did was cause her boots to sink further into the mud. She had to be careful though, with her measly height she might topple over trying to get out. Was there really nothing she could do to hurry things along?

There were only a handful of women in the row, most likely soldiers wives, cooks and seamstresses. They were all common women and while not unattractive by any means, they were very ordinary. Dressed in dull tones and simple formless dresses that did little to show their bodies. Floure stood out like a rose in a patch of weeds, though really the competition was so poor it wasn't hard. She made a point to seek out possible competitors in her line of work and judging from the women around the camp, none of them plied the same trade as she. If they were, they were doing nothing to draw potential customers. Perhaps the men around these parts liked that about women but she wouldn't be caught dead dressed like that, not even on her worst day. Floure knew she was going to do well here, people were always drawn to the exotic and different. Back home she was just one of many Traveler girls but here she was the only one.

It could be fun to test the water for a bit. She was bored to death anyway. A playful smile spread across her face. So far it had been a miserable day so she needed to enjoy herself. Floure untied the bright fuchsia shawl around her waist and draped it over her head to keep herself from getting soaked any further. She attempted to fix the mess of her hair, her curls were being weighed down by the rain making them appear longer than they actually were. Right in front of her was a man who had polished his armor in such a way that it shone even in the heavy rain fall. It was the perfect mirror to see how she looked. The image was distorted but she didn't look half bad, there wasn't much else to be done to improve it anyway.

Floure stood on her toes to look ahead and see who was standing farther along the row. A couple of places in front of the mirror knight was a young man, he was looking sideways so Floure could see his face and quite a handsome face at that. It looked like he was on his own and from his expression she could tell he was just as miserable as she'd been moments ago. Floure took a deep breath and went to stand next to the knight who'd been in front of her.

"Hello good sir"
"Do you see that man standing over there? He's my cousin." She said, pointing to her "cousin" standing in front. The knight looked down at her incredulously, not knowing where the young woman had suddenly appeared from. From the way she addressed him however he could tell she was a rude commoner.
"Yes I see him, what of it?" He practically sneered while he adjusted his grip on the shining helmet he carried in his right arm.
"Well I wanted to go and greet him, would you mind keeping my place in line?" Her words were accompanied by the most charming of smiles, her shimmering eyes able to disarm the man without even drawing a weapon of her own. Before the mirror knight had time to respond the young woman had already hurried off to the front of the line. Floure giggled as a series of profanities were thrown after her that would make even the Pretender blush.

She rushed to the young man's side and hooked his arm in hers before he even knew what was going on.
"Oh cousin it is so good to see you after all this time!, bless the Monarch for our meeting"
The young man didn't know how to respond and struggled to utter even a word, he had never seen this woman in his entire life. When he looked down at her, he was again at a loss for words. This time however at her appearance. She was indeed very pleasing to the eye, even in this horrendous weather.
"I know I'm speechless too!" Floure exclaimed dramatically, continuing to play along causing quite the scene. More than one pair of eyes were glancing at the couple quite oddly. And that was her cue to leave.

After a another series of charming smiles and honeyed words Floure had finally reached the commanders tent. She stepped inside, relieved to finally have a roof over her head. It was considerably less crowded inside the tent, most people passed through quickly and continued on their way. Floure was in no rush to go back outside and took her sweet time drawing the water from her hair, letting it drip on the floor.

"NEXT!" The booming voice nearly caused her to jump out of her skin and left her clutching her chest trying to calm her beating heart. The source of the voice was a stern looking man sitting behind a large table which was covered in open books. When no one came to the front he slammed his fist onto the table causing the inkpots to quiver dangerously.

"Hurry up foolish girl" The man standing behind her said, tired of waiting in the foul rain. Her heart was still beating like that of a hummingbird and the closer she got to the table the more she felt like running. The man sitting behind the registry looked like one of the Servants she'd seen roaming Coedwin castle. He was exactly the type of man she wished to avoid. The chance he knew the Robed Swords were after he was slim to none but the sight of the Monarch's cross around his neck was enough to make her stomach churn. When she stepped forward to write her name in one of the books she kept her face down, afraid to look him in the eye. She was taught to write by her grandmother but she also noticed a lot of the common folk simply put an X in the books, as they didn't know how to write. It was safer to do the same and pretend she couldn't write. The comfort of the tent had been a relief to her before but after seeing the commander she didn't know how fast to leave the tent in favor of the rain.

Ethbert and his fellow gate guard were idling by the northern entrance to Rot Donar. They were cracking jokes, casual, not watching for any real threat. What bandit or tribesman would attack a camp of soldiers? "Monarch, send us someone pleasant to look at," Ethbert prayed in an exaggerated manner, a lopsided grin on his face. "Send a lass, trained in the arts of pleasure. Refined. Fit to fuck a king. Is that too much to ask?" Ethbert watched in pleasure as his companion laughed at his jokes. The pair held their breath for a good moment. "I suppose the Monarch is taking his time," Ethbert shrugged. "A shame that -- what the...?" Ethbert cut himself off as a figure emerged from the wooded path.

She was wearing the garb of a traditional nun of the Monarchist faith, covering her from head to toe. Over her shoulder slung a large sack of various goods, books and equipment. One of the first things Ethbert saw was the glimmer of her silver cross necklace in the rain. He also noticed the ax in her hand.

And the blood covering her body.

"Fuck me, woman! What the hell happened?" Ethbert cried as he ran over to the bloody figure. He drew his sword and held it at arm's length - she appeared to be some kind of wild lunatic. "Explain yourself."

The woman had a faraway look in her eyes, her pale face speckled with drops of blood, slowly being washed away by the rain. "I came here from Holy Cross. The Nunnery." Ethbert noticed that the woman appeared to be unharmed - her robes were torn, but the only blood visible was being pushed aside by the rainfall. This woman had been in a fight, and obviously came out on top.

"Well... welcome to Rot Donar, sister," Ethbert stammered, a mixture of wariness and confusion adorning his features. "What happened to you?" He repeated. The woman looked down at herself and seemed surprised, as if she hadn't noticed her condition until it was pointed out to her.

"I was attacked," the woman eventually resolved. "Mountain lion. It came from the hills and pounced on me. I just swung at it... but I wasn't strong enough to kill it outright. I had to... keep hacking..." Ethbert looked back to his companion. Can you believe this? He wanted to say. The other guard just shrugged, as bewildered in this situation as Ethbert. By the end, I was just trying to put it out of its misery.

"Fuck," was all Ethbert could offer the woman. "I'm sorry, girl. Maybe we can get you an escort back to the Holy Cross, or they can send - the woman grabbed Ethbert's arm in alarm. Ethbert was so startled, he almost lopped off her head then and there with his sword. The woman was faster than any man Ethbert had bet on the battlefield.

"No. I've come to join the Black Shields as a... camp follower," the woman stressed the last words as if she were ashamed of them. My name is Hedwig. Hedwig of March. The Monarch sent me here, and no Earthly man or beast can stop my progression into this camp."

"Apparently," Ethbert whistled. "Go on in, I suppose."

---

Hedwig's first day at camp was mundane compared to the trip there. She went straight to an unoccupied tent and immediately established it as a interim place of worship for anyone who wished it, before even registering with the camp captain. Hedwig changed out of her bloody robes, hoping that she would be able to sew them up and use them again. She needed to be able to identify as a Monarchist Nun in the camp, or else she would be mistaken for a servant or even worse... a whore. Hedwig would feel terrible if a man mistook her for a lady of pleasure and touched her without her consent, thereby dooming himself to the outer layer of hell. Because of this, Hedwig let her cross hang over her dull woolen dress, and drew a large cross on her white cloak with a piece of charcoal. It would have to do, Hedwig decided.

Outside the tent, after Hedwig had gathered several large sticks and constructed a cross to mark the location of her church-tent, Hedwig set off to Hoffmann's tent to register herself. Her cloak was drawn over her shoulders, concealing the ax that hung from her waist. The Monarch had told her to bring protection, and it had already saved her life once. Hedwig was not prepared to ever part with her weapon.

Hedwig waited patiently in the registration line, watching the men train. The nun could not deny that she felt envy watching them, so capable of defending what they believe in without needing to explain themselves. A forceful "Next!" brought Hedwig back to reality, and she smiled as she stepped in front of the supposed captain of the camp.

"Abbess Marthinhilda of the Holy Cross sends her regards, sir," Hedwig said as she signed her name on the line provided. "She gladly sends me as a representative of the Monarch's will, and the abilities of the Holy Cross's finest nuns. You will not be disappointed, I promise you."

Laurence was getting frustrated at this point. Nearly a quarter an hour of wandering around the camp, seeing neither hide nor hair of a common area, let alone a mess-tent. He found the cooks easy enough, following the smell of roasting food and the plume of smoke rising plaintively towards the sky. He'd been hopeful there, but he left even more frustrated, receiving only vague directions, realizing finally that this was not a well laid out camp, and still lost despite the size of the camp. It certainly wasn't a Glasshorn camp, with its straight rows and broad central avenue in which tents of import are pitched, easy to navigate despite the size.

Laurence decided that enough was enough. He'd ask someone who looked like they hadn't just arrived. A minute later, he realized that there weren't many that fit that bill. Taking a new approach, he wandered up to a clever-seeming lad, noble by the looks of him, speaking casually once he approached.

"Ere lad, yer know where the mess is? I can't find hide nor hair in this jumble o' tents!"

Saewine felt his clothes grow heavy on his body. He could see no end to the rain, both figuratively and literally. It poured on the ground like a maiden sprinkling her garden zealously. He looked down at a dirty puddle, incapable of seeing his reflection on its rippling surface. He supposed it was only fitting for his predicament.

He took a step forwards, readied to try his luck at wandering around. The moment he decided, a burly voice boomed towards him. It belonged to a tall man, strong-armed and scarred. Saewine begin to wonder if he was the only person there unfit for war. Everyone else seemed either overly strong or experienced in the art of death.

Saewine looked away from the man before picking his—clean—ear out with his pinky. “Your voice … its quite the thrashing.” he grumbled, slinging his black dufflebag over his sunken shoulders. “Sorry, but I don't. Perhaps one of these drunkards could tell you.” He gestured towards a man stumbling about like a newborn. He was short on trust and quiet honestly, was near afraid the man was planning on killing him later.

Best to keep the conversation short.

"Oh sorry 'bout that lad, always was a bit too loud for polite company, yer know?". Laurence grinned, and purposefully lowered his voice. "I took yer for some feller knew his way round, is all. You've got that look about you, I suppose, not like these lackwits and thieves." Laurence extended his hand in greeting, glad he left his sword back with his horse. The lad look put off enough without six feet of steel waving about.

"Laurence Attewood, pleased to meet yer. Fancy a drink? Figure you and me can't take long finding one, and I find myself short an ale partner."

A drink? This man wanted to drink even with ensuing storm to come. A blood bath of swords and shield clashing. Arrows piercing skulls and chests alike. He was either a freak or oddly familiar with the workings of war. A veteran pehaps. Then a idea struck him like the back of his father's hand, both sudden and shockingly.

I could use this man. If I get in cozy with him. Make friends. He could very well become my retainer. A rough-around the edges one but one nonetheless. Monarch knows I'll not last a day out there on my own.

Even with his genius plan, he was caught off guard on how to approach such a warrior. If he was anything like Richard, he was as sharp as a refined sword. “Saewine, “ he answered with a noble's softness but a young man's tone. “But just call me Sae. I … think I will like to join you for that drink. Better to make friends than enemies, right?”

Though he had no idea where to find the tent with drinks, he was willing to follow behind the brute of a man with cautious eyes.

Laurence was convinced this lad was some sort of nobility now. The name didn't sound like something you'd name a farmer's son, for one. He spoke like a nobleman too, though without the sneer of confident superiority. That presented the obvious question of 'why is a lord's son joining a mercenary company as something other than a retainer or officer?', but Laurence didn't think he'd ask it. That sort of question isn't like to have a happy answer.

"That's right lad" Laurence chuckled "Can never have too many friends, never have too few enemies if you ask me. Come on then, two sets of eyes'll find the mess before long."

Indeed, they came to it fairly soon, nestled behind a sprawling tree just out of sight of the main body of the camp. An odd place to put a mess, but Laurence didn't think too much of it. He walked into the tent, entering a surprisingly quiet space, fewer men than he'd expected and fewer women than he'd have liked, but the fire was warm enough, and the ale was cheap. Laurence bought some of the better stuff, likely a good investment to making friends with his new noble acquaintance. Finding a seat on one of the long tables, he began to drink with relish, waiting for Sae to resume the conversation.

“Well … you'd certainly never find a king here.” he whispered as they strolled inside. The dark tent echoed with the rain outside but none inside was bothered. They were too busy enjoying the fiery drinks of their choosing.

He took a seat before the other man. He felt clammy and dirty, less than what he normally was. A noble … that title meant little amongst these ruffians. He gazed hard at his fingers, they laid palm upwards on the table; his nails were crusted with mud. Without thinking, he went to work to cleaning them.

By the time he had gotten to the last finger of his first hand, his company had returned. Saewine looked at the mug with hesitance for several seconds. “Aye, thanks.” He reached out with his cleaned hand and pulled the wooden mug to him. It smell oddly familiar, sweet and aged. “W-Why did you join?” he wondered.

Laurence stopped sipping his drink and laughed slightly, preparing to respond. "I think you can guess why I joined, lad. Man like me's got few talents besides using a blade, and I know it well enough. Tried to do something different for a while, but every man needs food, and I couldn't afford much more without work." Laurence considered returning the question, but again thought better of it.

"I been a mercenary before, most of my life in fact. Nearly fifteen years in the Glasshorn Company, figured I'd take a break and try and do some good." Laurence grinned with gallows humor "As yer can see, it didn't go so well. So, I figure, here I am."

Saewine nodded with the least amount of effort, his own thoughts trailing back to his lack of survival skills. He was no good with a sword, never trained with one and probably never would. And on top of that, he still couldn't grasp his mind around his Father's decision to send him here. To abandon him to the dogs. He clutched the mug with renewed vigor.

“Yea … certain circumstances have led me here as well.” He brought the drink to his lips, letting the fire run down his throat. Afterwards he hacked up a dry coughs before sucking up the pain and easing himself back to normal.

“This world is a bit unfair. Why must I fight the war of another,” he muttered, sinking his head into his folded arms on the table.

Laurence's smirk waned slightly. He knew better than anyone the world was unfair. He'd lived most of his life getting the better end of the deal. Being strong and good with a blade were gifts that were not available to most men, and they'd paid for their lack with their lives more times than Laurence was willing to count. It seemed, however, that his companion had different reasons for thinking the same way.

"Well, world is certainly unfair, lad, but I'm sure there's some reason you're here. If yer had no reason to be here, I figure you wouldn't be. I'd be gone faster than yer could blink, if I weren't getting paid. I don't know why yer here, but if you want to take the unwelcome advice of someone with a few years under his belt, I'd figure out why you're here, and if that reason's good enough for the risks."

Laurence took a drink, and laughed as a realization entered his head. "Fuck me but I sound like my father. Who'd o' thought I'd be sitting here lecturing some stranger. Sorry 'bout that lad, must be age catching up to me sooner than I'd like, eh?"

Sound advice.

Saewine slowly lifted his head back up before taking another sip from his mug. It nearly caught him off guard but he was capable of holding it down and looking somewhat like a man. “Anyone else would have gotten angry I suppose. You're not a bad person, Mr. Attewood. And for that, I'am grateful for your company.” He raised his mug up towards the man.

He had not seen his plan on gaining this man's trust going in such a direction, but either way it been a good start.

"Aye, I'm glad chatting as well. Yer a good sort, I can tell. I'll keep my eye out fer you, and I hope you'll do the same. Can never 'ave too many friends on campaign, I say."

Laurence raised his mug, clattering it into Saewin's in a slightly-too-forceful toast, and drank deeply, enjoying the good drink and good company, happy to have met a noble who could stand his company for more than a minute.

Terryn Hoffmann

---

Most of Terryn's time was spent sitting behind the dull table, looking at dull people, playing his little mindgame of guessing how long people would survive. The first that tickled his fancy was a man that went by the name of Warren Wyk, a man that wasn't unknown to Terryn as Warren first of all was quite an able swordsman, no doubt more than able if he weren't so damn sickly. More over he led the group called Wyk's Raiders. “A bit pompous to name a group after yourself..” Terryn thought but he paid it little mind as he simply nodded at Warren's words. The man was a veteran, and he seemed relatively at ease in the encampment. “With that back of his, and the bad condition he's in.. 25 days.” he thought before he called out.

“NEXT!” In walked a man that was wielding a greatsword as if it were some light weight spear. He listed his 'notable' positions in former battle groups, to which Terryn bluntly replied, “The only arse that cares about that is you, sign your name and get out of my tent.” Not a nice reply, but Terryn wasn't here to make friends with people. “I give him a month or two.” As soon as the man had complied and tasted a taste of Terryn's 'leadership' the old man's voice grumbled through the encampment again. “NEXT!”

The next man was a man he realized that he knew. Saewine Bloodworth, a nobleman, although the title 'nobleboy' would better suit him. The 'man' was merely 17 if Terryn remembered correctly, although he wasn't up to date with the birthdays of all the noblemen. Never the less he didn't make any remarks. Ultimately it was highly unlikely that Saewine knew him, so he just kept his mouth shut as the boy signed his name on the book and walked off. For a moment a silence was in the air, as Terryn didn't call out for the next, but instead reversed the book and took a look at the name. Saewine Bloodworth. The actual contents weren't in his interests, however, as he looked at the handwriting. The small bit of knowledge that Terryn had about writing and reading proved to him that Saewine was.. not exactly a warrior. Most of the warriors, even the nobles, had a sturdy, ugly handwriting. Saewine wrote more like a woman. “One day. Boy won't even survive a tumble in the messhall.” Terryn thougth as he put the book back in place and called out. “NEXT!”

A man was intent to enter the tent but was interrupted by a typical traveller girl - Terryn had become accustomed to them and their company through the years he spent at Coedwin. Luckily for the girl, Terryn wasn't a Robed Sword. There was only two reasons that the girl could be here - whorery, which would be welcomed with open arms, or fortune telling. Those that followed the faith with zeal were known to hate these kind of women, calling them heretics, witches or even hags, and slaying them legally or illegally. Not Terryn however. She skillfully maneuvered with the man, a young man that seemed to be of noble blood, although only minorly if he had to sign up in the rain like the peasants. A smile twisted onto Terryn's old lips as he watched her talk her talk to the man, before signing up. She adverted her eyes from his, but that didn't give Terryn enough reason to not speak up. “When you're done wait outside the ten-” but before he could finish she had vanished already. His smile turned into a grin. This girl he would grow to like, he knew already.

After her came another woman, dressed in white as she was a nun. “Great..” he mumbled to himself as he watched her sign her name. Her remark went under acceptance of Terryn. He nodded at her to show he understood her message. “Marthinhilda, I know her. Had many dealings with her at Coedwin when I was still a young Servant. Too many dealings, I'm afraid.” His words went paired with a lift of his sleeve, revealing a small scar on his upper arm. He'd keep it lifted for a second or two before letting it drop. He grinned at the nun in front of him, before explaining what it all meant. “Abbess Martinhilda found out I had made avances on a nun, and made sure I didn't do that again. Hit me with her wooden ruler so hard it cut open my skin. I made sure to stay away from her after that. I wonder if she'd remember me.” His small story turned out longer than he had intended and he quickly rectified that. “Sorry, please excuse my tales. NEXT!”

After about five more men were signed in he waved a man-at-arms to get closer, before instructing him to sit at the table and man the signups to ensure that there was no strange things happening. After that he'd leave his tent and parade around for a bit, taking a look at the various tents that had been set up. Doing so he stumbled across the tent with the cross outside, taking a swift look. It was a good thing there was one of these - any company needs a religious area.

He continued on his way towards the mess tent, another large tent that was more long than the commanders tent to fit all the tables, but obviously less wide as it only had to accomodate for 2 rows of tables in the length. Terryn walked all the way towards the end of the tent, before looking back and holding his hands folded behind his back. He stood for some time, looking and observing, before finally speaking up with that loud, bouldering voice. “LISTEN UP, ARSE WIPERS!” he started to ensure everyone was paying attention. Some heads would pop around the corner of the tents entrance to see what's going on. The reason Terryn did this in the mess tent should be obvious; it simply had the most people in it and hear-say would likely lead to the rest of the camp hearing it in the end.

“We'll be marching tomorrow in the afternoon, so best not get too drunk tonight, or else we'll leave yer' arse behind in the mud and brand ye a deserter. Make sure to get in a tent tonight, or pitch one up, otherwise ye'll be sleeping under a tree, bush, or some lucky fella's bed as you try to evade the rain. Monarch knows what men do to men sleepin' under their beds unsollicited.. Get a nights rest and I'll see ya lot in the mornin' where I'll be ready with the companies' divisions.”

With that said he walked out the mess tent to take a look around to find that traveller woman he had tried to talk to earlier - he had something on his mind he needed to speak, and it was likely important for her too. But where was she? He'd spend some time walking around looking for her, hoping to catch her wandering or in a random tent.

Warren Wyk

---

Warren pulled the mug up to his lips again, leaning his head further and further back so as to let the last remaining sips of the ale slide down into his mouth. "Ahh," he said, relieved. The ale wasn't good for his condition, but after such a long travel he needed it. He glanced around the camp, eying his new companions before standing up and walking towards the mess hall. By that time, Terryn Hoffman had made his way there and was about to give some sort of order.

Warren looked at the barkeep, nodded his head, and slid the mug close to the end of the bar for the man to wash. Warren stood up, stretched his arms and legs and made his way over to the mess hall. He went on for a short time, but Warren knew what this type of life was like and didn't pay much heed to the commander. Terryn turned to walk out of the mess tent and passed Warren.

"S-" The sound barely left his mouth before Warren's leaned forward and started coughing uncontrollably. He could feel the warm droplets of blood spurting from within his throat, showering his tongue, gums, and teeths. "Shit..." he said quietly. He slowly walked to the side of the mess tent and spit out the collection of blood. Some dried bits of blood, clumped together in the slimy-like conglomeration of blood and mucus landed with a 'splat' on the ground. The rain barely had the strength to wash it away it was so thick.

He pulled the rag from his pocket and wiped the blood from his mustache and beard , turning back around and heading into the mess tent, looking around to see if there was anyone worth talking to.

Terryn Hoffmann

---

It would take several days, two to be precise, for the Black Shields to be fully outfitted and ready to move. A letter was sent to king Gregar by Terryn that conveyed the state of the company, and within the day, late in the evening a letter was returned. It was quick, but not a surprise due to Rot Donar's close proximity to the Hoffburgt. In the letter, orders were detailed so that Terryn knew where to go and what to do. The first objective would be rather simple: act as royal guards for the upcoming fields. The castle guards were tasked with the protection of the castle itself, but that wouldn't be enough as the royal children were to be protected, as well as king Gregar and queen Anne.

As such the company was bound for the Hoffburgt, barely a day march on foot. The feast was supposed to happen the next day, so amongst the soldiers there was already a mix of noblemen and women that were headed for the party too, joining the march for safety. Ofcourse, they all had a retinue of their own with them. But that wasn't enough to protect you on the road where prying bandits, slavers and the occasional knight turned lawless would see you as a meaty sum of money, and your protection as a mere obstacle to get to the money. The noblemen realized this, especially with their wives and children with them, who are valuable to any man with a sane mind. And so the company of Black Shields was accompanied by a band of nobles and their retinues.

However the combination was short lived - upon arrival to the Hoffburgt town the nobles simply moved on to the castle and left the peasantry that called themselves the Black Shields behind them in this town. There was ample space in the castle for the Black Shields and so they were ordered, by the king or, more likely, his representative, to take home in a set of unused buildings on the outskirts of the town. A large portion of the men were put to work on converting the houses into a barracks of sorts - beds had to be made and your normal amenities had to be provided, such as a church-like room for prayer, a kitchen and a mess hall. The mess hall was not really a hall, as much as it was a line of tables outside in the courtyard. Some makeshift tents were placed overhead the tables to atleast offer some shelter from the rain, which was still pouring, but the water would slowly but surely seep through in some spots.

“You there, get on the bloody roof and start fixing it!” Terryn's voice went through the courtyard as he pointed at a set of 5 men, who were doing nothing, idly standing by watching the cooks do their thing. Their down-time wouldn't last long as Terryn sent them onto the roof and within the minute they had started climbing a ladder. These buildings are in bloody poor condition.. well, anything for the king, Terryn thought as he put his hands in his side and took in the sight of the building. It was a fucking shit building, but it was theirs, he supposed. Atleast for now - the Black Shields would be moving on soon enough. He sighed before walking towards the door and heading inside of this heap of trash they called the barracks.

“WARREN! SAEWINE! LAURENCE!” Once again his heavy voice rolled through the hallways of the building, which meant those he spoke to would no doubt hear him. He stood down the hallway at the entryway, from where the long, long hallway lead down the building. It seemed like this building had been used as a tavern, or perhaps a makeshift hospital, although it was made of stone and thus.. quite imposing compared to the wooden houses the other people lived in. Perhaps a stables? Former barracks of the castle guard? Who knew. Atleast there were enough rooms to give most of the soldiers some space. The rooms were outfitted for 4 persons per room, although Terryn and the noble commander had their own private quarters. Furthermore, a private room had been arranged for the camp followers that were deemed 'more important' such as the women (of pleasure, and those who are not of pleasure) and the cooks.

“Get your asses in uniform and meet me outside!” Ah yes, by now most of the soldiers of the Black Shields had been outfitted. You could tell this wasn't supposed to be a peasants militia, although it certainly looked like it. Although there weren't many men dressed in combat outfits, such as partial-plate, or chainmail, there was a certain uniform. The uniform generally consisted of a kettle helm with a noseguard, that also had chainmail attached which hid the rest of the face. All that was visible was a sliver of eyes, and a mouth, through the gap between noseguard and chainmail. Everything else was hidden and well protected.

The Black Shields wouldn't be the Black Shields if they didn't have the Black Shields. All recruits, whether peasant or knight, squire or ruffian, were given a heater shield, painted black in order to give the involved a sense of unity, to make the company recognisable from afar and in close combat, and above all, to make themselves known to any enemy that wished to cross swords. It was to be hoped for the three that were called upon that they had properly taken care of their outfit - after all, the king was expecting some top notch quality soldiery here even if these men were not all noble guardsmen.

With that being done Terryn marched right outside, back into the rain. Not that it bothered him, quite the contrary, long days in the rain had made him accustomed to it and now he wouldn't have it any other day. He might've been stationed in Coedwin for some time but that didn't change his liking for rain. As soon as the three men had appeared in front of him, he'd start talking to them again. “Listen up scumbags! We're tasked with protecting the kings son, Dorran, and that's what we'll do! Me and you, we're the ones who will be with him at all times! Do you understand me, idiots?” He would look at Laurence, who didn't seem too smart. Well, not smart in the regular sense. Terryn was quite sure Laurence understood what the task was at this point in time, but he also figured Laurence wasn't the one who would understand soft words and complex explanations as to why, what and how. He just needed direct orders and that's it.

His gaze switched to Saewine, who quite frankly had gotten the small straw in the drawings. He was not only stuck with these two veterans to compete with, he'd also need to learn quick. “As for you, Blue Blood..” A grin showed on Terryns lips, happy with the new nickname he got for the frail young boy. “Don't think I chose you because you're so good! You're here only because yer' a nobleman, and I need you to keep these two numbheads in check when speaking to nobles. You know the court rules, and they are just some warrior scumbags who haven't spoken to a nobleman in their life.”

He looked over the entire group once more as he now spoke to all of them, words still loud as always. Terryn wasn't a softspoken man whatsoever and that had become quite apparent over the few days that they'd spent with him. “In any situation to do with the safety of Dorran, Warren, you have the lead.” Warren might not be quick on his feet anymore with that back of his, and his questionable past with the queen.. well, Terryn would expect the man to stab a dagger in king Gregar's heart anyway. It wasn't like his past was hidden anyway, since Warren was somewhat well known in the world of soldiers. 'Master with the Blade' or 'Wyke's Raiders' had become terms anyone was familiar with, and with that, his past had also become somewhat well known, although ofcourse it was only the generalities. “Saewine will be the one who does the talking, cause he ain't much good with that little sword of his, and I ain't talking bout his manhood. Laurence.. you just.. look dangerous, like you always do. I'll just be at the back keeping an eye on Dorran, and I'll step in if things take a turn for the worse.”

Ah, this was quite strange. Normally Terryn would take charge, as obviously he was the head in hierarchy. But there has been a problem in the Black Shields so far - Terryn and the noble commander couldn't reach agreement on who to select as captains. Obviously the nobleman commander wanted nobles in command of the squadrons, and Terryn wanted warriors. Unknown to the three lads in front of him, this was a selection process. Saewine had been chosen by the noble commander, since he was blue blooded obviously. And from a high up family, too. Laurence was Terryn's choice - not too smart, not too dangerous in a political sense, and he could likely get the job done just by looking dangerous. Warren was the wildcard - both the noble commander and Terryn liked this man. The noble commander because Warren was obviously more famed than than your average peasant militiaman, and would allot a bit of prestige to the company. Terryn because, well, the man was a swordsman if anything. And as a captain, you were expected to be involved with training too. Having a man like that, even with a questionable past as raider and sworn protector of the old queen, as a captain would greatly improve the quality of the company. And also the life expectancy of the peasants. But he was a bit of a liability at the moment.

---

At the fall of the evening, after the men had gotten dinner, the company of four, namely Terryn, Laurence, Saewine and Warren, would head out to the Hoffburgt to take a look at the castle, as well as have a little talk with Dorran to make sure he agreed to their company. Quick steps in near dark lead up across the bridge, as the men approached the castle. When they entered the courtyard there would be ample time to look around, as the courtyard was way too big and open to take in the entire area, and Terryn walked too fast to stop and look. He entered the castle and headed straight down the hallway, as if he had always been here. In truth, he somewhat had been, since he'd formerly been a castle guard.

The hallways that seemed so complex were read like a book by Terryn and with some quick gestures he pointed at the feasting hall. “There's the hall, it ain't nothing special, and it can fit a boat load of people. We'll probably be posted there, there and there.” His hand moved with quick pointing gestures at three pillars, two on the left and one on the right, with a single right one that he reserved for himself. “Prince Dorran will be moving through the hall constantly I reckon, and you'll need to keep an eye out. He can handle himself, but just in case anyone tries some funny stuff...”

There wasn't anything else going on in the hall, besides some servants who were preparing tables and candles, but those were largely overlooked by Terryn. He moved on swiftly, leaving the hall (and the men, if they didn't follow) in the direction of Dorran's chambers. Once they'd arrived, he'd knock on the door. “Enter.” a voice said from inside, followed by the creaking of the door opening. Terryn stepped inside and urged the others to follow before closing the door.

In a chair Dorran was seated, at a table, ticking on his table with his finger. A clunking noise sounded everytime as his ring connected to the table. Terryn made a light bow as he approached Dorran. “These are the men I told you about, my prince.” Dorran nodded slowly before getting up. Slowly he would get closer and inspect the men, looking at armor and weaponry, and noting that Laurence had a mighty big sword. The Black Shield seemed obsolete for someone who used a double handed sword, the formalities of uniforms being lost on the prince. “You three.. can you give me a rundown of your former professions.. wait.. Saewine... of Runsworth?” Dorran stopped in front of Saewine as he looked into the boys eyes. That's about all he could see in case the boy was wearing his helmet (as he should). The obvious mix up of names was unnoticed by Dorran. “I didn't expect to be accompanied by a nobleman tomorrow.. or, well, actually I didn't expect a nobleman in the company of the Black Shields. Peculiar. How is your brother, eh..” The name wouldn't come out but Dorran didn't seem that interested at all either, so it wasn't a big surprise. He looked over to Warren now, and squinted his eyes as he attempted to discern him from the little he could see of the man's face.

“Ah.. and is this.. the famous Wyke? I've heard lots about you and your bands of raiders. Not all good things. But atleast those bad things happened to the Sawarim following Sultanate scum and not honest and hardworking Broacienians.” A firm nod ended the conversation before Warren could respond. Atleast the sentiment of being anti-Sawarim was shared by someone other than Warren. Dorran's gaze switched over to Laurence, who he didn't recognise. Not that he would recognise him without the helmet, either. “I guess you were hired purely on your physique. You look.. dangerous. Not a bad quality to have. Not sure what you look like under that helmet, I suppose it can't be too pretty being a brute like you are.”

He turned around and went back to his chair, sitting down and continueing his little scrutinization of the men. His ring tapped against the wooden table again and again now that he'd continue tapping on it. “Very well, I am not really that interested in your former professions. That's just a formality my father told me to ask you, but frankly I don't give a rat's arse what you did before you joined the Black Shields. But I am interested by something else.. please, tell me your motivations for joining the company.. is it money? Greed? Or were you running from something.. truly, I am interested in your stories.”

Warren Wyk

---

Warren had been spending a few minutes in his small room to clean the dirt and grime off of his new heater shield, which it had collected during the march to the Hoffburgt. Black was the most obvious color, and even if no one knew the company by name, at least they'd call them 'the ones with black shields'. Warren himself preferred a round shield, but a heater shield would still serve the same purpose. If ever he had the time, he'd personalize it with his own custom sigil. He took the time to let one of the company's tag-alongs dye his surcoat a combination of black and blue to match the 'uniform' of the Black Shields. The helmet... Warren never was a fan of helmets.

It was fortunate that, of all the men and women he'd run across, he actually got the chance to speak to Floure, an old acquaintance from Coedwin. He'd been hired to escort her and her company down through Redsand, spoke to her a few times even. He liked the girl, but there was some disappointment as to why she was here. Surely she wasn't offering pleasure to these men. It was an acceptable profession for sure, but Warren himself always hated the idea of woman degrading themselves in such a manner. Still, always nice to see and speak to a familiar face.

Terryn himself was an acceptable commander. He was to-the-point, hard, and just - the type of commander Warren preferred. Those men had the balls to get dirty, and it made them all the more better in Warren's eyes.

A few more wipes of the washcloth and the shield shined like new. Proud of his 'work', Warren lifted the heater shield and let is sit on his knees, holding the top with his hands. Not round, but still a shield.

"Ekhm," Warren coughed, feeling blood spray through his mouth. "Ekhm, ekhm." Warren swallowed the collected blood and shook his head, clearing his throat. "Monarch be damned," he proclaimed as he saw blood splattered across his shield, throwing it over to the side.

“WARREN! SAEWINE! LAURENCE," yelled Terryn. Warren sparked up, heeding the call. "Get your asses in uniform and meet me outside!" Grudgingly, Warren threw on the annoying helmet.

It didn't take long for the disabled veteran to pull his shield back up and whip into the hallway. The world began to turn as the sudden movements caused him to feel sick. Damn this illness, he thought. Fortunately, he managed his way in front of the commander with Saewine and Laurence - trying his absolute best to stand at attention. “Listen up scumbags! We're tasked with protecting the kings son, Dorran, and that's what we'll do! Me and you, we're the ones who will be with him at all times! Do you understand me, idiots?”

Warren took in the orders as he always had. Not that big of a deal. The son of the king was going to be vulnerable here soon, and Warren and his allies would need to protect him with their life. He'd done these jobs a thousand times, albeit with whores and peddlers. Another day, another job, he thought. Personally, he wanted to be out there, fighting enemies of justice, and putting the heads of the followers of Sawarim on pikes.

---

Warren remained silent, as expected no doubt, as Terryn led them through the Hoffburgt, showing them around. Warren had been here before, when the current King, Gregar, took the throne from the Queen. Of course he didn't do it forcefully, but Warren never liked the idea of some new king coming in and taking the throne from the queen like he did, especially since he attempted to intimidate her with his mercenaries. There was no foul play, and there was always a chance Warren's original mercenary group could have been hired by Gregar, but it still didn't sit well with him.

But if protecting Dorran made everyone happy, then so be it.

It didn't take to reach Dorran's chamber. Along the way Warren had subconsciously been wiping the dry blood from his shield, though it still remained pretty obvious on it. After being introduced by Terryn, Dorran approached Saewin and spoke to him. Noble this, noble that, pretty usual stuff. But then he looked at Warren. “Ah.. and is this.. the famous Wyke? I've heard lots about you and your bands of raiders. Not all good things. But atleast those bad things happened to the Sawarim following Sultanate scum and not honest and hardworking Broacienians.”

There was no way Warren was about to disrespect Saein, Laurence, Dorran, and especially Terryn by blatantly calling the Sawarim out. He bit his tongue and refused to say a few choice racist words. At least we're on the same page, he thought, fucking sand-eating savages.

“Very well, I am not really that interested in your former professions" Dorran continued. "That's just a formality my father told me to ask you, but frankly I don't give a rat's arse what you did before you joined the Black Shields. But I am interested by something else.. please, tell me your motivations for joining the company.. is it money? Greed? Or were you running from something.. truly, I am interested in your stories.”

Warren stepped forth and removed his helmet. Ooh, that feels better, he thought. "I'm here doing what I've always done, Prince Dorran." To kill fucking sand-eating savages. "I'm a fighter, a warrior - always have been, always will be." To kill fucking sand-eating savages. "I served your mother-in-law because to me that was the right thing to do." To kill fucking sand-eating savages. "I serve your father, because to me that is the right thing to do." To kill fucking sand-eating savages. "Perhaps one day, should you be a good and just king, I shall serve you, under the command of Terryn of course, and in the service of the Black Shields." To kill fucking sand-eating savages. "I'm just a man trying to make my way in the world, doing what I do best." With a gentle bow, obviously one Warren didn't want to give, Warren backed up and stoof beside Laurence and Saewine again.

To kill fucking sand-eating savages.

Laurence wasn’t sure about his assignment. Or, at least, he wasn’t sure what he thought of it. He’d guarded folks before, that was sure, but never a prince. He wasn’t sure how it would work, but he knew it wouldn’t be the same as guarding some mayor or standing outside some noble’s tent. He was relieved when he was told that he’d be allowed to keep the sword, but was not looking forward to using it in the relative tightness of the castle. He made a mental note to procure an arming sword from a smith when he had the chance.

Laurence appreciated the quick pace leading up to the prince. He’d spent more of his life in castles than he wanted to think about [and less than he’d have wanted, being honest]. He’d seen the Hoffburgt a few times, though never been posted within its walls, and despite the fast pace his eyes darted around in a time-trained fashion burning pertinent geography into his mind. The location and slope of stairs, the number of wells, the number of troops, the slope of the thatch roofs and a hundred other small details. Halfway through his inspection he noted that such observations would likely be completely unnecessary, but he figured there was no harm in it, and took in what he could before he entered the keep proper. He turned a more keen eye on the hall, but didn’t manage to make any important observations: he could count the number of times he’d been in any feast hall on both hands, and he hadn’t been in one so large in the better part of a decade. He’d take a closer look later, memorize the ways in and out and other such precautions.

He found himself growing more and more nervous as he approached the prince’s door. His mind filled with possible outcomes, with a particular fixation on a gallows after some slight or incourtesy. His nerves kept him silent and straight [an unfamiliar sensation: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt nervous, but he supposed odd times bring odd sensations]. He remembered to bow a second after Terryn, and flushed with chagrin.

He listened eagerly to what Warren had to say. Laurence was eager to know more about such an accomplished fighter, curiosity mixing with respect and not a small amount of jealousy. He hadn’t had much of a chance to talk with the man, and was looking forward to learning more about the man [and specifically about his swordsmanship] over the coming days. What Laurence heard was not what he expected: top courtesy, an answer that felt rehearsed and no doubt everything that was expected of an honest servant of the realm. Laurence was disappointed, though the bow and inklings of displeasure remedied the feeling, rekindling the curiosity at the apparently feigned performance.

Assuming it was his turn to speak, he began, forgetting to bow or remove his helmet or any other such courtesy, trying to determine how much of his foolhardy motivation he should tell. “My reasons are less patriotic, my Prince, though I’m happy ter be workin’ for the crown, so I am. Every man has to eat, and soldiering’s the only thing I know how ter do, so I see it. Not sure if that’s greed, but I reckon I ain’t one to say, considering.”. Remembering to bow at the end, he did so, his head coming about level with the heads of his companions, as he stepped back into line, shifting the shield uncomfortably on his back.

The days had gone by in agonizing, small moments. Saewine found himself wishing for respite more and more, his worries weighing on him just as badly as his physical exertions. He knew it did him no good but what else could he do, none of heartless bastards in charge would hear his pleas. They either swept him under the rug or called him a coward and threatened him with death.

He bit the inside of his cheek as he stared up through the thick beams of the stony building. His cot had been only a bit more comfortable than the ground but it would do for sleep. When Terryn's rolling voice startled him into sitting up and he realized the man was neither nearby nor directly in site, Saewine lowly cursed and wished him a foul end.

Can I not get even a moment of respite. Just one bloody-fucking second to drown in my misery. he mumbled to himself.

At the Commander's orders, he dressed himself in the armor—though it took him longer than Laurence and Warren—before hurrying out to stand at attention. His shoulders slacked as he drug himself to the position and looked dully straight ahead, his chiseled features were soaked in the rain; his shield strapped to his lax arm.

Saewine frowned a little. Of course he was not picked for his skills, did Terryn think him some dunce. “Obviously,” he muttered in response, not thinking that Terryn had indirectly insulted the two warriors and that he had, in blunder, agreed with him.

While the four of them made their way to the Castle, Saewine found curiosity prancing around his mind. Just why was he tagged with these two? Was it faith? Perhaps their was something to this Monarchism thing. He had askedfor help plenty a times within the last three days. To be amongst Terryn, Warren, and this dangerous-looking brute was as safe as he could be. Not to mention, in just a short few moments, he would be within the intimidating radius of a royal figure.

“Thank, The Monarch.” was all that slipped from his mouth.

Standing in front of Dorran was much more tense than he imagined. The guy was handsome even by his own standards and exuded a natural dominance. He was a bit jealous about that but maintained his composure. When Dorran's attention was brought onto him, Saewine only smiled politely and bowed; he could not be sure if his emotions would betray his calm words. “Heron. And … well … he is dead.” he answered.

When his turn came to explain his motivations, he was torn between Warren's own honesty, Laurence's crude answer, and his own inhibitions. Should he lie or state that: Like any coward before him, he was forced to joined the militia. Eyes to the floor, his bangs draped between the Prince and himself, Saewine finally lifted his gaze onto Dorran and took a step out of line.

“Umm … Well,” he let out a strong breath, his emotions showing in the tension of his jaw. He let out a hard hmp! and quick-lived smile. “I was forced by my father. In this whirlwind I have but one motivation. To survive, my Prince.” He stepped back into line, unwilling to continue showing his quickly deteriorating pride but unable to hide the harden resolve on his face.

“He has to let me.” Sara’s voice strained like a hound at the end of its leash, barking high and proud, with confidence; perhaps a forced confidence, but with confidence nonetheless. “He must.”

Alycia looked up to her elder sister, awed by her faith, but with a far more realistic outlook herself. “No he don’t. If he let’s you, I wanna’ go too, Sara. It’s not fair if you go and I don’t.”

The elder girls eyes narrowed, shaking her head as soon as the words breached her seven year old sister’s mouth, “No, no, no! You’re not going!” Her voice pitched in disbelief, “I am not watching you. Absolutely not. No way.”

“You won’t hafta’, Sara! Papa’ll watch me. I don’t want to be here ‘lone.” She pleaded back, brushing a hand against her freckled nose. “Please?”

“Father isn’t going.” Sara answered simply, turning away from the child to face a mirror, checking one last time that she was presentable.

From her spot cross-legged on the floor, Alycia began to laugh, “Now I know he ain’t gonna’ let you!”

Annoyed, Sara flicked her eyes from Alycia’s direction, smoothed her skirt, and made way for the tent-flap door. Behind her, she could hear Alycia calling after her, though much to her own relief, the child didn’t follow. The last thing she needed was for her to be pleading too. Alycia was a child, of seven years and her father had every right to keep her away. Sara, however, was nearly full grown, and it was time, past due time if you asked her, that she’d be allowed to go to such occasions; alone.

--

When Sara returned to the small tent shared by the two girls, her eyes had been watering, growing red and agitated, but she wore a smile all the same. With a handkerchief, she wiped her eyes clean, using her reflection to make sure everything was back in place. It’d take time for the swelling to go down, but Sara had time, and she looked toward her little sister with a Cheshire-grin. “He’s going to let me.”

“Then why are ya’ crying?” The girl asked, concern playing across her face.

She was answered with a small, guilty, smile. “Well, he wasn’t going to let me at first. He was quite adamant in being against it, but-…”

“What’s an ada-mant?” Her sister interjected, now smiling along with Sara, eager to hear how she’d persuaded their father.

“Adamant? Adamant is a word that means-…like, strong; unwilling to change.” Sara explained willingly, nodding along as she often forgot she was speaking with Alycia, who was still fairly green in the way of words.

“Oh,” was her only answer, before the child drifted to silence, a cue for Sara to finish.

“But, I changed his mind. I said ‘I‘ve spent my childhood on a battlefield, it is time I spend my womanhood at Court.’ And I-…I know I shouldn’t do this, and I scold you for doing it all the time, but this is very important to me, Lycia- I started crying. I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear, but I just started crying. So then he said I could go.” Her grin once more reemerged from that brief guilty look, “I’m to be escorted there, which is fair enough. Honestly, they might have thought me strange, a Lady come alone.”

Wonder filled the younger girls eyes, both happy, and jealous for her sister, “When I’m old a’nough, can I come with you too?”

Sara nodded eagerly, grinning full-on now as she floated toward her chest, waving for Alycia to follow, “Of course, but help me figure out what I should wear. I wish I had something new, but I suppose any of it will be new to them!”

--




Though it was evening, and both girls were better off in their beds, Sara could hardly catch a wink of sleep. Alycia too suffered from this restlessness, mostly because just as the younger girl closed her eyes and pulled the covers over her head, Sara whispered to her through the darkness. Then she was forced to sit up, sleepy eyed and groggy.

With only a dimmed and dying lantern to guide her eyes, Alycia stared over toward Sara, who sat up in her nightgown, brown hair like hay upon her head. Both her pale legs were crossed, and her hands rested in the hollow that was her lap. Something about her posture, how she leaned forward, how her grey eyes seemed overly wide- or was that just the reflection of the lamp playing tricks?- made Alycia realize there was only mischief to follow if she didn’t go back to sleep. But the girl was quite the fan of mischief, so she grinned widely, and sunk her bare feet to the floor, “What do ya’ wanna do, Sara?”

The older girl stood too, stripping quickly from her nightgown, into the dress she’d been wearing hours ago, “I don’t know, but I don’t want to stay here. How about we take a quick walk, no trouble with that, hm?” It was unlike her to suggest something even so seemingly harmless. Sara was the good one. Their father said everyday he found a new grey hair, but that was always from Alycia, because Alycia was trouble. Sara was calm, and mannerly, but there was nothing calm about her excited behavior now. She needed to do something, something that might exhaust her, because otherwise, she was never getting to sleep.

Alycia changed quickly, having Sara button up the back of her dress, and she tied the lace of hers. Soon both sisters were matched identically in dresses and cloaks, one far taller than the other, but they appeared in their shroud just as much sisters any. Outside, they could hear the rain, let up a bit from the downpour of earlier, but still continuing with its steady beat against the canvas of their tent. Sara had no real destination in mind, nor an excuse for why they were out, but she strode through the pot-holed street with purpose. What purpose, she didn’t know, but only hoped that if they acted as if they belonged, no on would care to question the two of them.

Terryn Hoffmann

---

Dorran seemed satisfied with the answers, giving an understanding nod at the end of each man's explanation. The man didn't seem that interested however - he was mostly stuck in his self filled world where he, he and only he mattered. As such he waved the trio away to go stand guard outside for a while while he remained with Terryn. “Please excuse us for a moment, it's time we discuss the big planning for tomorrow.” he said to the three as they were waved away. As soon as they'd close the door Dorran would begin talking to Terryn. “Quite frankly I do not understand why my father has beckoned you to protect me.” he said whilst getting up from the chair and walking to an armor stand, crossing his arms and holding his chin with two fingers. He observed the armor and then reached out and plucked a dust speck off of it. It was a good armor, handsome looking, but no soldier would ever carry it into battle. It was thin, and adorned with silver in places where you'd want hard steel, not soft silver. To the side of it was a nice looking sword. Now, any soldier would want a sword like that. A steel blade, an ivory guard with several golden adornments. The handle was good looking too, steel for strength, wrapped in leather for grip. It was useful - this sword, unlike the armor. However the following events made it apparent that even the most useful blade was useless in the hands of a dunce.

Dorran grabbed the sword and did some 'practice' swings, clumsily and damn near hitting Terryn as he did so. The man stepped back, at ease, but the annoyance was readable in his face. When Dorran was done swinging his sword like an idiot, he placed it back and looked at Terryn triumphantly. “A man like me, with a sword like that, cannot be touched by mere mortal souls. I may not be king yet, but I can feel the Monarch looking over me.” Terryn bowed his head lightly and smirked, the bow merely being a front for Dorran so he wouldn't see the smirk. “Aye m'lord, you're right. The Monarch lives in you. You'll be revered like a God when you sit upon that Stag's throne.” Dorran seemed satisfied with the answer and turned around. He walked over to the nearby window that overlooked Hoffburgt Bay, the area that led to the castle docks. “I am glad a man of your martial stature, Terryn, agrees that I am a master swordsman. As such, I will assure you you and your men can rest easy tomorrow at the feast. Take it easy. If I am right, my father has a baptism by fire planned for your men. Ofcourse.. you don't officially know this, so keep your mouth shut.”

Terryn stood back up straight from the bow, and his smirk had dissapeared. He'd never said that Dorran was a master swordsman - that was his own interpretation, but Terryn wasn't dumb enough to correct the lord. He was a powerful man, and although he was too sure of himself, and hadn't the skills to back it up, he was still king Gregar's son, and Gregar no doubt knew of his son's faults and errors. Oh, the things Terryn would sacrifice to make sure Dorran didn't take the throne, but his brother in his stead. A man like Bjorn, a Servant, humble and capable, that would make a fine king.

“Thank you for this information, my lord. I'll keep my mouth shut.” Well, Terryn would, but he'd known from previous employments at the castle that the doors were too thin to discuss information like this without the sounds coming through. As such, he realized the three men outside would've heard every single thing the man had said. “I'll instruct my men to stand at ease, but I'll also tell them to remain vigilant all the same. It's best not to take any risks, m'lord. You are more than capable, but we wouldn't want to show people just what you are capable of in battle. Surprise is a nice tactic in battle, m'lord.” Dorran nodded slowly as he stood at the window, not even granting Terryn the pleasure of eye contact. He turned around and changed that, looking Terryn straight in the eye now as he lowered his hand again. “Yes, I know. That's why I told you to stand guard. I don't want to show my people what I am capable of. Imagine the surprise when they try to take my throne from me and get cut in half by me! I'm not dumb, you idiot peasant. Remember your place, Terryn. My father may like you.. others don't.” he said with a snarly tone, ignoring the fact that he'd just told Terryn to stand easy tomorrow. Terryn simply bowed with a soft “Yes m'lord, sorry m'lord.” It would be a dumb idea to give this man more reasons to be egocentrical by granting him the pleasure of whining to his father about this whole discussion.

Dorran shut up now and that was Terryn's cue to leave the room. As he left and closed the door behind him, he mouthed a soft “Fuckin' cunt blue-blooded rat's ass. Can't swing a sword to save his life. Would-be kin-” Well, that was somewhat stupid. He cut himself short when he realized there were still three other men around him, men who he did not know too well, and such they would probably rat him out if they saw anything to gain from that. “Ahem. Let's go.” It was obvious that Terryn was a bit emberassed by being caught red-handed cussing out the heir to the throne, but he'd hoped that the three individuals here felt the same way about that stuck up kid.

---

They would pass through the castle again, not stopping this time to view some areas of interest but rather walking straight back to the town. Not a word was to be spoken, as evidenced by Terryn's silence. And so they passed through the town again until something caught Terryn's eyes. He stopped dead in his tracks and turn to the left, facing down a street where he'd see two familiar figures, whom he did not expect to see in a town this shabby and dark. Well, not like there was any happy and sun-lit towns in Broacien. Place was full of swamps, deserts and other shit, there wasn't enough room for happy sun-lit towns. For that you'd best visit Cherwen.

He'd point to his right down the trail back to the barracks, softly speaking to the three with him. “Go ahead, go back to the barracks.” he said authoritively. But then he added, “Or go to a whorehouse, an inn or do whatever the hell you rats' arses like to do at night.” With that the conversation would be over - the men would know not to talk back or linger around unless they were feeling particularily stupid. As soon as they'd be gone, Terryn would pat down his clothes to get rid of dust and ugly spots. He readjusted the large two handed, rusty greatsword on his back that was chipped all round, before finally stepping closer to the two figures. His chain swayed side to side, clanking against the metal of his outfit softly. Luckily for him that sound went muffled under the midnight sounds of the town.

He approached from behind and extended a hand forwards, grabbing onto the shoulder of the smaller left figure, whilst speaking up to the right. “What's you doing out so late at night?” Hopefully, he'd scare the two enough to make them apologize right away and hurry back to the barracks, but he'd known Sara for longer and knew that might not happen. “Don't you know of the Boogeymen that go out at night to steal little girls, and murder the ones too big to take with them in a cloth sack?” Ofcourse, there weren't real boogeymen, but there were certainly kidnappers, rapists and murderers - if the two weren't unlucky enough to be caught by slavers, who were all three in one, and probably more. “Y'all best be headed to bed now, 'fore the boogeymen wake up and get'ya. Plenty of time to walk 'round town tomorrow, 'less you're joining us at the feast, Sara?” Terryn didn't particularily care much for them - well, ofcourse he did, but he realized more and more that Sara wasn't a kid any more, and would do whatever she wanted. Alycia, on the other hand, it was somewhat careless of Sara to take her with without an armed guard.

And there was no way in hell that Terryn was facing the wrath of her father again - Terryn might be a superior, but Nikolas was a nobleman in some way or another, and that meant that he had some influence over the course of the Black Shields. No, Terryn'd have to stay on his good side. Not to mention the girls were sweet, sweeter than some of the other camp followers and officers' kids, so he'd feel bad if they'd die to some random murderer. In a way, he did care for them. But more so out of practicality than feelings. His grip on the young girl's shoulder would tighten slowly, not hard enough to make her feel pain, but tight enough to make them realize he wasn't joking around. “Sara, I don't think ye' wanna explain to Alycia what a whorehouse is anyway.. and ye' were headed in that direction.” He'd point down the street subtly where at this point a drunken man was being kicked out of a brothel by a strong looking man, armed with a shortsword on his belt. Walking past those areas was generally a bad idea for a pretty girl like Sara.

---

Regardless of whether the duo of girls came with him back to the barracks, he'd continue home. As much as he felt responsible for them, Nikolas was still their father and he had to do these kind of things, not Terryn. In a way he felt bad for Nikolas although he did get himself in this situation. What idiot brings his kids with him on campaign? Tsk, nothing to be done however. A noble does as a noble pleases, and that's just how it went.

The very next day the Black Shields were up at the crack of dawn. Everyone was doing as they were instructed to - some of the labourer types were constructing a makeshift roof over the dining tables to ensure that they wouldn't get leaked on when having some of that filthy grub they called food. Others, the soldiering types, were either helping out by carrying stuff around or were polishing armor and weaponry insides. It was a prestigious task after all. The stream of nobles had increased even more today, with a new set of nobles arriving by the hour. It'd be a grand feast, worthy of king Gregar.

However the team consisting of Terryn, Laurence, Saewine and Warren was to be up even earlier. The four men were bound for castle Hoffburgt, passing as soon as the gates and drawbridge had opened. After all there were some preparations to be made. They were headed straight for the feasting hall, which was already filled with people at this early point in time - some of the nobles were seated there, drinking wine slowly as to not be drunk this soon. They were conversing at a normal tone, though that was bound to change when the room got more filled. As soon as the four guards would step in, several would look over at the four guardsmen, but then quickly resume to their conversations. At most there were 20 men in here already. Obviously the women were still in their quarters getting ready for the feast - that could sometimes take ages. Terryn turned to face his team and spoke to them at a hushed tone, to ensure that he wouldn't bother the nobles standing around talking. “Get to your positions boy, and better be prepared to stay there for a while. Not much gon' happen for the first three hours. If you need to walk around, just walk in a circle and pretend you're inspecting some stuff, or som'in like that.”

The only reason the duo were stopped in the first place was because Alycia had paused in her gait, pulling loose the clasped hands of the girls’ to point off through the huddled roofs, toward a sliver of what could only be the castle. In the darkness, one could hardly make out its vague shape, with no moon nor stars to guide the eye, and only a crisp sliver of highlight on the western wall to distinguish its blackness from the black sky beyond. Still, both girls paused, backs turned to the streets, and squinted and debated the possibility that it was truly the castle. After a quick debate, both settled that it could only be the castle, for there was nothing quite so giant so close, or else they would have noticed it in the earlier day.

In Terryn’s approach, he’d only see their silhouettes; a tall hill, and a short hill, any actual shape beyond that covered by the breadth of cloak. On closer inspection, Sara wore a dulled maroon, hued pink like the instead of a healthy mouth. Alycia, very typical to her usual dress, was cloaked in a light blue. As his hand dropped across the smaller girls shoulder, her immediate and only reaction, was to jolt into Sara, and turn with a gasp. Sara seemed far more livened by the intruder, a second hand to grip her sister above the elbow, and pulled on the girl like a overzealous game of tug-of-war, “Get off her!“ She shouted, a scream on-the-ready. But before she screamed, she recognized the old man, perhaps by voice, and her open mouth instead breathed a sigh of relief, rather than screamed bloody murder.

So relieved she was to find that it was only Terryn-…though, opposed to the alternative, perhaps only Terryn was a true relief- the girl couldn’t help by smile, a hand releasing her sister’s skinny bicep, and floating to the flat of her chest. The sudden rush of adrenaline had her breath drawing rapidly, but her gentle voice was soon to follow, realizing quickly that though Terryn was preferable to others, he’d be on the top of her list, alongside her father, on people she ought to avoid that night. But it was too late for avoidance, and so the girl kept her pretty smile, and hoped to The Monarch that he would deem the run-in too non-consequential to need Nikolas’ ears.

“We were just walking.” Sara answered innocently, Alycia surprisingly silent, perhaps still in a bit of shock. Her next words came sweetly, and it was a lie, but a lie they both knew- so more like a secret. “Boogeymen, here? Oh no, Mr. Hoffmann. I am sure this is the safest place in the city, I mean, with the Black Shields patrolling. We aren’t daft, we’d never wander too far. We must be perfectly safe!” She smiled all the same, and he’d know she was at least trying to be sincere. She was a sweet girl, a smart girl, smart enough to know better, but sweet all the same.

Alycia’s trance was broken soon after Sara’s words, and those bright blue eyes upturned to Terryn, framed by the red of her hair, “Boogeymans aren’t real, Mr. Hoffmann.” She stated in a no-nonsense fashion, shrugging her shoulders, and ducking like a pup held by the nap of its neck, “We’re in the city! All the real beasts are out in tha’ forests!” How wrong she was, but the girl nodded along like she really knew something, like she was some sort of expert. He’d find that the girl was constantly staring at him, having no concept of shame or etiquette, and ever since she’d first met him, as a toddler hardly able to walk, she had been in complete muse of his face. It was more likely than not, she really wanted to ask what happened to his eyes, or about the dots, or about any number of scars damaging his visage. Nikolas might have raised his daughters unorthodoxly, but he had not raised rude girls. Alycia’s staring could be considered rude, but she was a young, curious child, and most seemed to excuse her lingering eyes. But she knew better than to ask questions to a man so close to her father. Nameless soldiers were different things entirely, the chances of them ever interacting with her father to the point where they could reveal what personal questions his daughter had asked were astronomical. If her Papa ever found out she’d asked Terryn about his eyes, or dots, or scars, she’d be whooped. Nikolas was usually a forgiving man, especially to his daughters, but he was not a man who excused rudeness. Alycia knew that, and so she remained silent, wondering how Terryn had lost his eye, but never daring to ask.

The elder girl’s face flushed with excitement, very glad Terryn had asked, “My father is allowing me to go.” It was obvious in the way she spoke, with an eagerness becoming of girls her age, that Sara was delighted by the very idea of the feast. It had her young mind entrapped, transfixed on the stories she had read and heard and only wished to be true. If only she knew how different the occasion would be compared to those stories, far less magical, far less charming, perhaps a bit boring. Who could fault a girl, a girl of fifteen years and with still so much to learn about the world, for expecting something grand? Romance was in her blood, for Sara herself was a very romantic character, with her books and paintings, all very lost in a world of beauty and pretend. It served, however, as a very sturdy shield against bitterness. She may not have been on the front lines, lying down her life, but Sara had encountered horrors all the same. For eight years, she'd followed the campaign trail, and she’d seen men die stomach curdling deaths, the sort of deaths that ought to have left the girl in tears, her impressionable mind mangled so young with the weight of mortality. To survive, seemingly no different than any other girl her age, Sara needed to be disillusioned, she needed to believe in those stories of fancy balls, and noble Princes, because if she did not, there was nothing for the girl to believe in at all besides the ever-looming knowledge that one day she would die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She was lucky for the stories, able to smile toward Terryn, the wonderstruck look on her face enough to express how thoroughly enchanted she was without saying a word.

“She made Papa let her.” Alycia chimed up to Terryn, grinning ear to ear, “He said no, but she cried, and so he said yes!” It was all very funny to her, the idea that her father caved so easily to her sisters demands.

Sara shot the little girl an annoyed expression, preferring to keep her bout of tears a secret because, frankly, she was ashamed of crying. It would seem more like a ploy to get what she wanted, something twisted and manipulative, when in all reality, Sara had not cried intentionally. It wasn’t her fault that crying had been the trick to change her father’s mind, she had not cried to change his mind-…though she was not oblivious that crying may have that effect, she had cried because she felt overwhelmingly cheated by him saying no. Sara didn’t dwell long on his original ‘no’, preferring not to think about it, instead she looked back toward Terryn, and slipped a hand beneath her hair, rubbing the back of her neck in reluctant admission, “I hardly-…made him. I did not force him, I did not trick him. I think he came to realize I’m not a child any longer- I‘m not Alycia,” The little redhead frowned up at her sister, soft lips drawing into a pout, “and so, he decided to allow me. I suppose this means you will be there, Mr. Hoffmann?” Her voice quirked in a question, though she hardly waited for an answer, “My father is not going, I am sure he’ll be eased to know a friend will be present. I daresay he may rub his palms raw in anxiety. He acts as if I am going to war.” A small, ‘hm’, akin to a short laugh, followed her words, listening again as Terryn warned her of the brothel.

Under his hand, Alycia winced again, her head tilted up at an almost comedic angle to regard him, looking off then in the way he gestured, and then back to him. “I know what a whorehouse is!” She asserted proudly. The worst part was it was likely the girl wasn’t lying, she lived amongst men who visited the whorehouse more than their own mother’s, and surely their exciting tales of sexual prowess surely had not escaped her sharp ear. Alycia loved all things taboo: swear words, dirty stories, and every bit of smut that flowed an ever constant river from young boys’ and men’s’ mouths. No matter how hard Nikolas tried, he could not protect the girl from it, there was too much profanity all around. So, instead, he hoped to teach her against use of such language, and how evil and ungodly the actions around her were. Still, she was an impressionable little girl, and so when she knew her father’s ear was deaf, Alycia liked to swear like a sailor, even if she had no clue what many of the words meant, or how to use them.

“Then what is it?” Sara asked suspiciously, curious of what, hopefully, misconstrued definition she’d been told.

“It’s the same thing as a brothel.”

“What’s a brothel?”

The younger girls eyes narrowed, but she shrugged, “I’unno, it’s a place.”

Giving Terryn a relieved smile, Sara looped her arm around her sisters shoulders, and rescued her from under his hand, “Yes, of course Mr. Hoffmann. Thank you for warning us. We were just walking, I hope we didn’t cause any trouble. We’ll head back right now.” Pulling her little sister close, Sara gave the man a smile, and Alycia beamed from below as well.

“Thank you, Mista’ Hoffmann. Please don’t tell my Papa.” She spoke exactly what Sara was thinking, and the girl chastised her with a quick ‘Alycia!’, before leading Alycia around, and praying that she hadn’t just given Terryn that very idea. He didn’t seem the man who would care so much that he’d seek out their father, but he might, especially if they had annoyed him. He didn’t seem annoyed-…or any more annoyed than usual, and so Sara bid him a quick goodbye, and dragged the child back toward their tent, unsure how she should feel about the encounter, though part of her knew not to worry. They hadn’t done anything to upset Terryn with them, so why would he go out of his way to upset their father with them? It didn’t seem like his motivation, so Sara was able to find sleep easily, the brief encounter enough to exhaust her, and let her find rest.

---

The only thing that would allow one to recognise Caterina as she walked down the drawbridge, into the muddy paths leading to the new barracks, was her scarf that waved in the wind. Luckily enough for her the guards seemed mostly preoccupied with dealing with the nobles that were arriving and giving supplies to the Black Shields to get their makeshift barracks up and running. As such she managed to scuffle through in her new 'peasants' dress. It was a simple green woollen dress she'd borrowed from one of her servants. She had a way of dealing with the servants that made sure most of them like Caterina - she was a friendly child after all.

Her steps brought her through the rain rather quickly as she moved with a remarkable agile step. Within five minutes she had walked through the town's main street, and at the end of it she found the former stables that were now a makeshift barracks. She simply walked in, with a confident stride. As soon as she had entered she would pull the woollen dress off over her head and dump it to her side, onto a small wooden bench. A few soldiers turned their heads, but none seemed to mind too much. Those that were familiar with her, or atleast her appearance, would likely not say as much as a word to her in fear of calling on her spite, and those that didn't know her could mistake her for a servant girl, who simply dressed a bit boyish.

A hand was raised from her side as she went through her hair with it, ruffling it a bit to atleast get rid of that sticky, wet hair feeling that she always got from the rain. And sadly, at the Hoffburgt it mostly rained. She supposed it helped the mood, on those rainy evenings with her family near the fire.. something to be treasured. It used to be anyway, when they were more complete, and Dorran was.. nicer.

Enough time wasted reminiscing, however. A young looking militia-man from the Black Shields walked past, dressed in a simple gambeson, with his black heater shield on his back and a falchion resting on his hips. Caterina extended her hand rapidly and grabbed his wrist softly, tugging on it slightly to get his attention. “Excuse me, mister? Where can I find the traveller girl that is with the Black Shields? I am Cateri- I mean, I am catering to her needs. I was sent by lord king Gregar Grochain to Terryn, and he said to go here and help the travelller gi-” She was cut short as the man pulled loose his hand and stared the girl down. He was carrying some firewood and obviously had places to be. Caterina gulped - she'd wished she'd seen that earlier.

“She's down the hallway, kid. Now beat it!” he said loudly, obviously not aware that Caterina was actually a princess. Well, not that she'd make that obvious in any manner - she was dressed in a black jacket with burgundy trimmings and steel buttons, something generally reserved for the more princely boys, rather than girls. Although Caterina was a bit taken back by the mans loud words, she wasn't a stranger to the hardships of peasantry people. She'd snuck out the castle on more than one occassion to take in the town-life. If anything, it was rough. Furthermore, the man was bothered by Caterina, and Caterina probably wouldn't appreciate it if someone else tugged on her hand while she was carrying heavy logs. She simply gulped and nodded, before running down the hallway.

She approached the end of the hallway and heard.. strange noises, like moaning, but not of pain. She decided she didn't want to open the respective doors, and simply reached out for the door that she suspected the traveller woman was in. Her hand reached up for the knob, but rather than open it she rethought it and knocked before hand. Knock knock. Her light hands could hardly provide a hard knock, but it was loud enough to be audible. Not waiting too long on an answer, she reached for the knob and opened the door. “Miss...” It only now occured to Caterina that she didn't have a name or anything like that. “.. miss traveller..?” she'd ask again when entering the room, closing the door behind her. “I'm Caterina Meitelde Grochain, princess of Broacien and daughter of our king, Gregar Grochain. I want you to.. tell my future using your magic?” It was clear that Caterina wasn't exactly sure what this woman did - but she was very much so intrigued by it despite the teachings of her older, more pious sister. To Caterina, this 'magic' was about as real as religion. It was all make belief, but it didn't hurt to be open to it regardless. And even if it was not make belief.. there was no way to prove that it was true. You'd simply have to believe in it. “But.. I am here on my own accord, as my father forbids me to leave the castle without guards. They'd never let me come here, so you need to be quiet about this, or.. or I'll be upset with you and never come here again, okay?” Caterina's voice was noticeable hushed, to the point where she was between whispers and speaking. She definetely didn't want to get caught by anyone that would tell on her.

---

Pale eyes were staring into the flames of the burning hearth, the fire bathing the entire room in a warm glow. Floure drew her legs up to her chest, resting her face on her knees. She kept watching the flames, their colors always shifting from red to orange to yellow and every hue in between. It reminded her of the camp fires with her Traveler family. They would have at least one every evening, where they shared a meal together and told fanciful stories of the people and places they'd seen that day. Cousins she hadn't seen in months would suddenly show up unexpectedly, a surprise that always filled her with joy and laughter. They were welcomed back into the caravan as if they'd never left. She would dance with the children and teach the younger ones the traditional dances of her people. She could never get enough of seeing them laugh and try their hardest to follow in her footsteps. The teenage boys who were amazed time and again when girls turned into women as they danced.

It were the memories of those times that kept her going, running, hiding from the ones who were still after her. Thinking of them sometimes eased her pain but more often it created more pain. A sense of longing that could not be fulfilled, no matter how many men shared her bed. Floure glanced over to the man laying next to her, her raven hair trailing down her white back. She studied his form, the arch of his back and the width of his shoulders. He was a fit young man, probably a farmer or perhaps even a blacksmith. His calloused hands had felt rough on her skin. He slept on his stomach, his face hidden by his pillow, if she watched him very closely she could see his body rise and fall with each breath. His name was Kai and he'd been her first client since she joined the Black Shields and arrived in the Hoffburgt. They actually talked a bit before she would give him what he wanted. That had been quite unusual and that wasn't even the best part. Kai told her how he'd recently come of age and that he wanted to enjoy what it meant to be a man. So he was the same age as her and he'd never even made love before. If she had been in a better mood he might have gotten what he desired. She just wasn't in the mood to entertain clients. She was skilled at what she did but there was no way to hide the wistful sadness that toyed with her heart. So she used a trick that worked like a charm every time, where she offered her client a herbal tea which served to enhance pleasure, when it was really a powerful hypnotic brew. As a result Kai was sleeping of his ruse thinking he'd made love to one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen.

Floure couldn't say she was terribly sorry. In the end time was money and time with her did not come for free, coin had to be paid no matter what way a client preferred to spend his time with her. Kai just caught her at a bad time, perhaps he would come back one of these days and she would be honest that time. For now however he was peacefully snoring away and quite loudly at that, so loud that at first Floure didn't hear the soft knock on her chamber doors. When she heard who it was her eyes went wide like saucers. It was the princess.....
By the gods what did she want with her? As Floure continued to listen in utter surprise she noticed her door began to open up, the young girl was letting herself in. Floure slowly drew the sheets up to her chest to cover herself and held in her breath as the princess went on to explain why she was here.
Going against the rules, how very ruffian of the youngest princess. She liked her already. Floure let her gaze go over the young girl, intrigued as well as excited. She'd never seen a princess in her life and to be honest Floure was quite disappointed. No fancy dresses and expensive jewelry? How on earth would she be able to afford a palm reading if she had nothing in return? Well it couldn't hurt to give a reading free of charge. She had already cheated one client of his money, the fates would not forgive her if she did so twice. To a princess of all people.

Floure didn't really know how to address a royal properly but she gave it her best effort.
"Your highness, if you would please enter the room to your left" With her right hand she gestured to a small room just around the corner, her other hand holding the sheets to her body. It was previously used as a washing room but Floure had set it up to use in case she required it for fortune telling.
"I will be with you in a moment" Floure finished in a sweet voice, while searching the room for her robe.

Was that.. a man in her bed? Caterina wasn't unfamiliar with the trades of camp followers, but she'd never seen it up close like this. She gulped once more, realizing now what she had actually gotten herself into. But there was no backing off now. She'd have to pull through to find out just what this woman could do. “I.. I am sorry for interrupting you, I'll come back la-” she said softly, soft enough for it to go unnoticed by the woman, who beckoned her to enter the room next to the current room. Taking the time to look around a bit while the woman spoke, Caterina stepped in further whilst looking at the room. The fire was a welcome change to the damp and wet outside - something that Caterina could appreciate. “T-thank you.” she said, still somewhat unsure of what to do and how to act at this point.

She would follow the ladies orders, and walk into the room to her left, making sure to check it out thoroughly as she entered. It seemed to be the washing area, but was now more outfitted towards the skills of a traveller lady. “Wow..” The words left her mouth before she realized she said them, but she meant what she said. For a converted washing room the room was quite good looking. She'd take a seat and wait for the woman to appear again, taking in the sights around her.

The washing room had become the abode of a sorceress or at least that's what it looked like, it was a fond replica of Floure's traveler home. The stone walls in which numerous alcoves were carved to hold soap and other supplies were now filled with strange paraphernalia. All kinds of odds and ends were huddled together on the shelves forming a strangely well matching puzzle. Bottles filled with oil in which floated things long unrecognizable but undoubtedly disturbing to the unknowing. Charms and amulets in various shapes and sizes dangled from every high place in the room so one had to watch where to go in risk of touching one.

Right in the corner of the room, somewhat out of sight was a small table on which two idols were placed, shaped vaguely like a man and a woman. They each had a candle of their own burning with a small flickering flame, the candle wax dripping down the metal holder in which they were placed. There were all kinds of items sprawled out on that table, a bundle of dried flowers, shimmering precious stones and crystals along with seemingly ordinary objects such as a needle and a thimble. A heady scent filled the entire room, it originated from a small pot out of which a trail of white smoke rose into the air. There was a candle burning in every empty space that was left, while it lit up the room and chased away the shadows it somehow added to the air of eeriness in the room.

The fortune teller entered the room from the other side, emerging from a door barely noticeable. If one was either gullible or drunk enough you'd think she appeared out of nowhere. Floure had put on a sheer wine colored robe made of silk not caring to completely dress herself. For the sake of modesty she wore her undergarments underneath it, yet the robe left little to the imagination and it made her ivory skin appear all the lighter.

“"Please sit."” She spoke in a calm voice. The Madame seemed to radiate an air of mystery, keeping her back turned towards her client and due this failing to notice she was already seated and waiting patiently.
"“Put your money on the table and we will begin”."

There was a round table in the center of the room and two mismatching chairs placed on opposite ends of each other. On it were yet another pair of candles but these were freshly lit, as if the woman was expecting a client. Little glass crystals dangled from the holder and made a slight clinking sound as if someone had touched them. There was a chalice filled with water, to clear the dry throats of her nervous clients as well as her own. A deck of frayed playing cards, a bundle of dried purple flowers which seemed to serve no purpose and finally a beautiful pearlescent bowl shaped like a seashell. Inside the bowl were already three silver coins, payment of her last client.

After hearing the satisfying clink of coin, she turned holding the curtains to her side for her slightly theatrical introduction.

“"Welcome, I am Madame Floure”."

She produced a match from the folds of her robe and lit it on the candle. It sizzled with a blue light as smoke trailed behind it. The fortune teller drew it through the air in an enchanting manner as she spoke.

"“The palm of one’s hand can illuminate the past, clarify the present and show you the future.”"

"“If you have a specific question, hold it in your mind.”" She said with a slight arch of her brow, looking at the princess with a knowing look.

"“Let me know when you’re ready."” Her tone of voice was calm, soothing to the often nervous clients.

Caterina found herself ducking underneath some beads and charms hanging from the ceiling. This place was.. giving her the creeps, but it was also mysterious in an inviting way. She wanted to know more, and it made her believe there was something mystical going on here. She approached the table with the strange dolls on them, one girl, one boy, and extended a hand to the girl. “What is.. this..?” she asked herself, but was interrupted before being able to grab it. With a quick turn she put her hand behind her back as her face turned red from emberassment. She hadn't intended to take it, just take a look, but she understood it might look stranger. Well, not like this woman could do anything if Caterina decided she wanted the doll, but frankly Caterina wasn't the type to take something for no reason. “I...”

She couldn't say more, amazed at how beautiful this girl could look without any of the royal servants pampering her with different clothes, ashes and powders for on your face and other things like that. It took Caterina two hours to get ready for a small feast, let alone a big one.. and this woman just dressed in some dress and looked like she walked straight out of a story from the Monarchists book, where the girls were always beautiful.

She decided now to sit down across the lady, and put a hand in her black jackets' pockets and pulled it out, holding a closed fist over the wooden bowl. As she opened it, five silver coins fell out into the bowl with a satisfying clunk. She now looked the woman in the eye daringly, her shyness making place for her daring attitude now that she felt a bit more at ease. The coins had been paid after all - and the woman was clearly more interested in coin than winning favor with the king by ratting the princess out.

“So, I can ask anything I want right? About anyone? Can I ask two questions? What if I ask two questions in the form of one?” she asked, almost like an inquisitor demanding answers from a heretic. However the questions were more interested and childlike than threatening, as an inquisitor wouldn't have asked the woman this many questions and her head would be atop a pike already. Regardless of the answer the woman would give - if any at all - she had already thought of a good set of questions to ask.

“Whom will my sister, Aren Grochain, marry? I think it's sir Wricwood from the Servants. But.. then who will I marry? Or will I never marry at all? Will I get to lead an army, like my brother, Bjorn? Maybe I'll be queen, like Dorran will be king. I hope not, because if I am queen, everyone else is dead. I'd rather Dorran be king. Then everyone is alive.” Her thoughts were a mishmash of questions at this point and she would be surprised if the woman could actually tell her anything at all.

“Now what?”

Floure shifted in her seat to make herself comfortable and closed her eyes, taking deep slow breaths. The room fell completely silent, save for the soft chime of glass crystals and the slow burning of many candles. It was the way her grandmother taught her, to find a sense of inner peace and calmness. If your head was someplace else you couldn't hear or receive the messages you were meant to receive. As she had not further explained what was going to happen, the entire ritual of fortune telling was probably very foreign to the princess. Just as the silence grew near uncomfortable Floure opened her eyes, now properly prepared for the work at hand. She took a vial of light green oil and anointed herself in the manner of the stars, similar to the sign of the cross made by church priest yet foreign in a strange forgotten way.

It was against the conduct of one who told fortunes to breach the privacy of people who had not given permission to have their futures examined. Floure had made the occasional exception but it rarely if ever worked out well for neither party. If the princess wanted to know something about her relatives of her friends they would have to come to her themselves. The young girl seemed very eager, clients usually did, but Floure was still trying to discern why the princess wanted to know these things. She suspected it was just innocent curiosity. When she looked at the princess again she got the feeling she wasn't quite clear on what exactly she wanted to know. Not many people could manage to quiet their thoughts and focus on a single important question. It was one of the first things she learned as a young girl when she was initiated in the art.
Clients with vague or no questions were very common. There were usually two types of people who came to have their fortunes told. Ones who were in desperate need of answers and had exhausted all options and then there were the thrill seekers who wanted to be entertained and see what the mystery was all about. Floure thought the princess to be of the latter kind.

Floure smiled, moving her long hair over one shoulder and leaned forward slightly, getting closer to the princess.
"Just try to relax" She said in a honey sweet voice. With a quick but gentle movement she took the left hand of the young girl and held it palm facing upwards. Her fingers were pleasantly soft and flitted over the palm of the princess like a butterfly. The lines in her palm were very faint and it was hard to clearly see everything she required. Floure made a clicking sound with her tongue, contemplating how to proceed. There were others methods of fortune telling she had mastered. However she preferred palm reading because it was easy to use. She didn't need any shenanigans, like a deck of cards, a burning fire or a bowl of water. All she really needed was the palm of her client and since everybody generally had both of their hands if not one she was never out of work. It also didn't draw as much attention as reading fire or water, it was inconspicuous and that's why she liked it.

"Hold it like this." She kindly instructed the princess as she got out yet another bottle, containing a dark fluid seemingly an oil of some kind. The fortune teller dripped three drops of it onto the palm of the princess, it looked nowhere near enough to cover her entire skin. As she began to massage it in however the brown color spread very quickly making the lines in her palm stand out like colorful embroidery on a white glove.
"Much better." The fortune teller mused.
Floure went on to study the lines in the hand of the princess, squinting occasional and smearing out the oil where it huddled together in the natural curve of the palm.
"You are very much like your mother, more so than your sisters." Floure said turning over the hand of the princess to watch the shape of her fingers, the distance between them as well as the shape of her thumb and ring finger.
"Very gentle and kind and your mind is open to a great many things"

She took the right hand of the princess and repeated the same procedure, covering it the darkly colored oil. This time she didn't study the fingers but only the lines in her palm.
"The right hand reveals our future, things yet to come" Floure explained as she looked the princess in the eyes, smiling mysteriously.
"I see you will marry but it will not keep you from the way of war. There is a kind of danger coming your way, something you'll need protecting from" Her tone became more serious, as the playful and fun part was now over. She was getting to the gritty part and Floure was never one to sugarcoat things, even if it meant she would earn more money by doing so. Some might call her a heretic or a fraud but she was in service of the truth.
"It is an enemy of the crown, your father, who will come after you" Floure watched the princess intensely to see how she received this prediction. This was not a fanciful performance, no smoke and mirrors. She was for once serious and Floure hadn't expected to see such grave events in the palm of the innocent princess. The faiths had determined hardships would rule her near future. A warned soul could prepare itself.

Caterina did as she asked, holding out her palm, although the way the woman moved her hand for her, she didn't have much choice to comply. It was her domain after all. She followed her orders, slowly moving her palm whichever way the woman wanted it to. All the while her eyes were focussed upon the woman's eyes, watching intently and waiting for something. Then she said something to Caterina, about her sisters and mother. Caterina simply nodded - this wasn't totally unknown information although it was good to have reaffirmed now.

The woman went on to tell her of her marriage, and that it wouldn't keep her from war. She knew as much, and this wasn't what interested her, more so than the name of whom it was. “Can you only tell me that? Not who I'll marry?” she sounded somewhat dissapointed until the woman raised the issue of an enemy of the crown. It was interesting, but once again, nothing really new.. there'd always be enemies of the crown. That was a given at any given time. And it wasn't that hard to make up these things either. Most of these things were easy to come up with even if you had no background knowledge of the people you'd be reading. “That's all you can do?” She didn't seem too impressed with the woman, but couldn't help but feel slightly anxious at the thought of an attacker coming for her. She'd always expected it to be an assassin for her father or brothers, who would be dealt with. What would anyone want with her?

She got up again and shoved back her stool in place. “Well.. thank you for your time, miss. Maybe I'll come back another time.. but then you'll need to tell me more.” And with that said she left again, attempting to hide the anxious feeling she had and remaining proud, something that didn't come natural to her. She just felt like she would have to assert her dominance over these people to get what she wanted - something that probably wasn't true in most cases, and more than likely not this case either.

Flashback, back at the camp

Warren waited patiently as the mess-cook stirred the contents of his pot. It bubbled, grooaned, and popped in its cycle. Finally the cook brought up his ladle and dupped the food into Warren's bowl, sloshing around as it filled up to the brim. "Thanks," Warren said.

He didn't really want to sit with the rambuncious recruits, so he singled out a few chairs which were unoccupied and made his way over to them.

Floure slipped into the mess-tent quietly and for once she tried not to draw any attention to herself, which was near impossible being one of the few women in camp combined with the way she dressed. When she entered a couple of recruits turned their heads to look at the new arrival. They whispered amongst themselves and tried to make eye contact with her. Normally she wouldn't shy away from it but her meeting with the commander still had her rattled. It reminded her of the reason she was joining the Black Shields and the fact she wasn't there simply to amuse herself.

The mess-cook was cooking up a stew and serving it to many of the people who entered. Her stomach growled like that of a man and Floure suddenly just how famished she was. A growling stomach would be very undiserable when she was going to work . Not to mention she wouldn't be able to focus on anything but food, so either she had to eat something now or her first customer had to be the most beautiful man she ever saw.

Floure walked straight up to the kitchen area, snatching an empty bowl from one of the tables when she spotted a familiar face sitting at that exact table. It was the Redsand Butcher! They had traveled together from Broacien to Coedwin while he served as a guard for their caravan.
Unbelievable. She thought, her eyes widening in surprise. What were the chances she would meet someone she actually knew?

Immediately a sense of relief washed over her, knowing there was a recruit who was at least somewhat familiar to her. The Gods were truly looking out for her and she promised herself to give thanks sooner rather than later, or else her good fortune may end. She quickly went to fill up her bowl and returned setting it on the table quietly. He seemed to be lost in thought and didn't notice her right away. Floure smiled to herself, a playful look on her face, eyes alight with mischief. She took of her colorful scarf and in one quick sweep used it to blindfold the Devil of the Desert.

"Guess who....?" She said, giggling cheerfully.

"Floure?" Warren asked, sounding both surprised and relieved, recongnizing the tone of voice. On one hand at least someone he knew was one. On the other hand, that someone could only be here for one reason. "By the Monarch, what on earth are you doing here?"

"Well you tell me..." She replied with a cheeky smile. Floure sat down next to the seasoned warrior to enjoy her stew, well enjoy was too nice of a word. It was food and she was hungry so it didn't need to get complicated. Besides her food was either too spicy or too salty, so she shouldn't be one to complain.

Hopefully Warren wouldn't truly be able to guess why she'd joined. As far as she knew only the Servants in Coedwin and herself knew about her escape from trial. She did need help if she ever wanted to get back to her family alive but she was threading carefully.

"I don't know," Warren said, shrugging his shoulders and stirring his stew. "Figure you're here for... entertainment. Ain't that your profession? To entertain folks?" Warren was just speaking freely. He felt a little unwinded now that someone he knew was here. "Unless something happened in Coedwin that made you leave. I don't know why else you'd come to see all these loons." Warren lifted his spoon and slurped in some of the stew.

When Warren made mention of Coedwin her heart sank and her usual witty replies were replaced by a solemn silence, something very uncharacteristic for the young woman who was at any given time full of flirtatious smiles and the excessive batting of eyelashes. She did not trust herself to come up with a convincing lie, one that wouldn't eventually come back to bite her in the ass.

Floure at her stew quietly finding the silence unbearable but couldn't get herself to say much of anything. At least if anything bad happened to her it would be reassuring to know Warren was around. She didn't know him to be anything other than a guard to her caravan, maybe he'd still feel some sort of mild obligation to watch out for her. Then again that could just be her naivity trying to grasp at some sort of familiar face, someone who had her back. How she did miss her family.

"Floure," Warren said, noticing her sudden solemness, "is something wrong?" While the young woman wasn't exactly an old friend, his short time with her in Redsand still made him feel somewhat attached to her. Then again, he became attached to all woman. In his eyes, women were weak and needed protection, and it was up to the good men of the world to protect them. "Floure, if something is wrong, you can tell me. I'm here to help, you have my word." Warren patted her on the back as a show of compassion.

She felt Warren's hand on the small of her back. His kindness made her want to confide in him. Yet there was still this voice in the back of her mind to be careful. She didn't know who to trust. It would be best to keep her secrets to herself for now, it was safer that way. Floure sighed softly and rubbed her hands together nervously.

"It's nothing really, I just hate the weather up here. I'm used to the warm sun of Redsand." She explained, not sounding overly convincing without the usual accompanying smile. The young woman left her stew unfinished and got up from her seat, lifting her skirts in order to ease out of the bench which lined the tables.

She placed a soft hand on Warren's shoulder, just like he'd done earlier. "I'll see you soon." She said solemnly. With that she left, dissappearing into the crowds to find a tent of her own.

Floure ran swiftly through the courtyard of the Black Shields barracks, trying to evade the rain which came pouring out of the sky. She had covered herself in a shawl in an effort to keep her face and hair free of the rain and ruin all the work she'd put into her looks. The fact that she was going to be late along with the steady downfall made her speed past all of the recruits in a hurry, ignoring their teasing whistles. Her feet barely touched the ground and she tried to avoid any puddles in her path. This morning she had overheard somebody say they needed another performer for the coming feast, one of the scheduled dancers was no longer able to perform. Granted she had been eavesdropping when she heard this and the fact that the dancer would not be able to attend was mostly her doing. The combination of too much wine and pleasant company was too much for the young man to handle. He was probably still snoring in his tent.

Well you snooze you lose. She smiled smugly and continued on her way. The keep was located on a large hill at the edge of the sea, on the opposite end there was the cliff where the town was located. All that stood between these two was a great drawbridge on which she was now standing. Her smile had quickly disappeared when she realized she needed to cross the bridge to reach the keep. Floure was terrified of the sea. She could hear the water churning beneath her and it sent shivers down her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Too scared to run the young woman had no choice but to walk carefully, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the keep. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest and she could almost hear it beat over the sounds of the wind and rain.

Now was probably a good time to pray, she didn't want to be taken by the sea. That would be a horrible way to die. So the young woman clasped her trembling hands together as she walked, whispering prayers in a frightened voice. As she continued to pray and walk she reached for her purse taking out a single silver coin. She stopped for a moment so she could throw the piece of silver into the water, not taking her eyes of the keep doors even as she did so. Hopefully the lady of the sea would be appeased and she prayed with all her vigor for a safe passing.

When she reached the gates she saw a growing crowd of people gathering there. They exited their carriages dressed in expensive finery and priceless jewelry. If she wasn't in such a hurry Floure would have tried perform the Huckeny Boro. These were the kind of people she loved to relieve of their money. They had plenty of it anyway, what harm would it do if she took some of it?

Ideally for the trick to be successful she would need the help of a brother or sister. All Travelers knew this this trick and most only used it when they knew the caravan would be leaving in the next day because you needed to be far far away from the house you performed it in. Her grandmother had taught her a very particular way of performing the Huckeny Boro. She needed to get into the house of a noble lady or otherwise wealthy woman and earn her trust usually by selling cheap wares but mainly though fortune telling. She would proceed to convince this woman to lay aside some small amount of money along with the most expensive piece of jewelry the family owned. A ritual would then be performed to appease the spirits of the house and double the amount of money offered in seven days. It was stressed the woman should not disturb the bag during these seven days. The small bag which contained the offering of money and jewels would be switched with a identical bag containing straw and scrap metal. It never failed her before and it was the thrill that made her keep using it, that and the riches she acquired of course.

With a last wistful look in the direction of the nobles she slipped past the crowd and into the Hoffburgt keep. Once inside she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The young woman felt like she had just swam through the ocean instead of crossing it by bridge. The keep was enormous, the largest castle she had ever seen or entered. Floure slowly walked into the hallway, removing her shawl. She let her eyes wander around, taking in the sights in front of her. The hallways went on endlessly and she could not see the doors leading to the next one. Paintings the size of a small bedroom wall lined the walls, expensive curtains of flowing velvet in rich colors. What a waste of good fabric, if it were up to Floure she would make a skirt out of that velvet, instead of hanging it on the walls to gather dust. Small groups of fancy dressed visitors were admiring the decorations of the keep, most of which were priceless and one of a kind. It was a complete change from the stark and cold outward appearance of the castle.

As she walked she attempted to find the feasting hall, the location where she would be performing. She passed multiple doors until she came to a large door, different to the previous ones she'd come across. It looked more grand, its inside was probably equally as grand. It stood halfway open too and people were slowly entering one after the other at a leisurely pace. It seemed like the feast hadn't started yet, so perhaps she wasn't all that late after all. She followed suit behind a young couple and made her way into the feasting hall. The feasting hall was as impressive as the hallway even more so and the young woman never ceased to be amazed at the riches of the nobles, knowing there were people who didn't even have enough food to feed their children. The difference between the rich and poor made her sick to the stomach and she wondered what she had done to deserve to be in a place like this.

After a while she came across a full length mirror with a golden frame, probably placed there for the guests to tidy up and the ladies to powder their noses. How convenient Floure mused to herself with a happy smile. She checked her reflection and was appalled by it, the coal around her eyes had smeared slightly due to the rain and her curls were windblown into every which way. She gently wiped away the smudged make up under her eyes with the tip of her scarf. She used a little more coal to touch up and stained her lips pink using a colored powder. When that was done she began to finger comb her long curls, rearranging them to frame her face and fall down her back and shoulders. The young woman was completely absorbed into the tidying of her appearance and for a moment forgot about her surroundings.

As much as he wanted to say help had been delivered, Saewine just knew that Dorran had not paid much attention to them. The egotistical arsehole had shooed them away no quicker than his last words had touched the air. What a way to go! He had wanted, if only marginally, for his words to have reached the Prince. For a letter or order for him to be sent back home but none of that came.

Saewine waited with his arms folded over his chest and his back leaning on the cold stone of the castle. His agitation was obvious but for what reason he was sure no one could guess. He let his brows frown as Dorran's self-praise slipped through the cracks of the wall. I wish I was a King. Not even noble power can grant me the reigns of destiny. He reflected.

As soon as Terryn was dismissed, the man's heavy footfalls approached quickly. Once outside the door, a quiet flow of curses flew out. All of which was pointed towards Dorran. Saewine found his eyes wide with awe and a small smirk on his lips from the similar feelings. He just wouldn't have used such crude words ... in such a manner. Afterwards, the three of them marched through the dimly lit castle, always being greeted by the fiery shade of a burning torch.

Saewine walked silently. He had neither the will or want to discuss his duties. The others were strong warriors and while he felt safe, he also knew there was a possibility that he'd be alone. Passing by the dark scenery with indifference, he felt rage course through him. Before long, Terryn sent them off on their own. He fixed his face to be some-what pleasant as he paused amongst Warren and Laurence.

The dark haired youth mentally reached out for Laurence or Warren but pulled himself back. No. He felt exhausted. Mentally, physically, and emotionally. That had become the norm for him now-a-days. With a single-hand he waved them good-night and strode back towards the Black Shields barracks. Ready to lay his weary head to rest.

He awoke heavy-lidded and drowsy. Sleep had not come easy—he had caught but two hours of it—and now he rebuked Terryn with a wrath unseen. Garbed in Black Shield attire, shortsword on his hip, and heater shield latched to his arm; Saewine found an empty table and while pretending to inspect it, found himself seated. His head lolled as he fought the heavy grip of the sandman.

Darkness took over as a blink became a three minute blackout. When he awoke again, he stood to his feet and rubbed his head furiously, his black eyes nothing but dull and heavy lead. “This is not the duty of a noble. I should still be asleep right now.” He muttered before cluelessly trailing away from his station.

While walking he paused at a beautiful portrait of Princess Erica. He instantly remembered that she was to be betrothed to a suitor that had not been found yet. He imagined it being himself. If I married Princess Erica than I could be free from this nonsense. I could return home and feel the breeze of my land's summer; the courtyard's dried leaves on my bare feet … The safety of Bloodworth Keep, not to mention the crown.

A still figure in the hall, Saewine found himself hypnotized by the image. “She's beautiful. I wouldn't mind dying for her … I suppose.”

Fatigue must be rambling my thoughts. He chuckled weakly.