Season: Autumn, Time of Day:: Late Afternoon, Weather: Stormy.

Storms of terrifying ferocity had been slowly gathering force, before lashing the outer folds of the embryonic kingdom with gales, rains and even floods that old and wise folk in the villages and hamlets claimed to be 'unnatural'. It was one such storm that reached the Rohirric capital at the very same time as the Golden Serpent ([@BCTheEntity]) and his retinue of guards requested entry into the presence of their war-leader and monarch, sheets of ice-cold water slanting downward and hammering at those that did not swiftly seek shelter. Those patrolling the walls retreated to the warmth and dryness of their gatehouses and towers, while the stout doors of the great hall were swung open to allow the entry of a slightly bedraggled yet resplendent serpent into the very same room as the King - numerous weapons capable of firing bolts with great rapidity trained on him at all times, of course.

Inside the great hall the gloom that had suddenly enshrouded Aldburg was somewhat held at bay by the furnace-like hearth-pit burning away merrily, placed near the centre of the hall and burning away merrily, tapestries and trophies of war lining the hall beyond the perimeter created by the wooden arches that held up the thatched roof and partitioned the building from one end to another. As Saptheth was guided forward, each step taking him closer to a humble wooden chair upon which a man of great stature sat, he may even pick out arms and armour of his own defeated people - yet these were not grisly relics of war, but trophies taken from valiant enemies on the field and displayed as such - everything from the weaving of the tapestries to the wood-carving on the arches and the plaques upon the walls showed a culture higher than most would give the Northmen credit for.

"My King," proclaimed the foremost of the guards, foremost in both prestige and position among them, "we have bought to you the desired prisoner. Some call him the Golden Serpent, some simply call him 'scum', he has been bought here at your behest. What is to become of him?"

All this was said in the Rohirric tongue, coarse and even abrasive to some, but fluid and straightforward as well; much like the tongue of the Dwarves in those respects, Eorl the Young gazing upon the man from beyond the sea of Rhun with great fascination. Something in the way his lips twitched at the corners, his sparkling blue eyes studying the garb and even the uncovered flesh of the man before him, showed that Saptheth was there for more than just something to gawk at.

"Tell me, Easterling," spoke the King from his throne - dressed from head to toe in a regal tunic of greens, embroided as it was with golden threads, a cloak of wolf fur wrapped about his shoulders - his voice soft and mellow but edged with violence, "why do you believe you are here? I hope you have no been mistreated by the guards or my Gondorian allies?" This he asked in Westron, a tongue that neither he nor his prisoner were fluent in, but remained the most common tongue in Western Middle-Earth.


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There were few within the Eightfold Foal, the largest and most populous tavern in all of Aldburg, that would have noticed the entry of a single newcomer. Indeed, it took a moment or three for Eōrwīga Æsctīr, known as Felafrēcne to some and personal blacksmith to the king himself, to even register in his bleary-eyed state that the figure who strode in - the sound of the beginnings of a storm following her as the door opened and shut - was not an effeminate man, but a woman in close-fitting armour! How did he know this? Well, you did not become the King's own smith and not indulge yourself once in a while...he had known many women, and being able to spot on at a distance was something he prized himself on.

After using a handful of his own straw-blonde mane to wipe away the froth of his ale from his mouth, he first followed the path of the man-woman with his eyes - taking note of the two loud-mouthed crooks with a casual glance - before following her with his limping and stattico gait over to where she sat. Just in time to find her indulged in some light reading, it seemed.

"My apologies..." he thought for a moment, "eeer, madam, may I sit here?"

Without waiting for an answer he dragged a seat from another table and placed it opposite Éolan ([@Sigurd]), a disarming smile playing across his features as his eyes bored into her own, "may I ask what you are reading?"


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Was it fate that the Knight and the Criminal should meet at the same time? Was it some trick of the Valar, even of Manwe...or even Illuvatar and his divine arrangement in the heavens?

No mortal could ever say, but it was not long after Saptheth had entered the hall that the Swan Knight arrived at the gates of the keep - his distinctive dress gaining him some quite immediate respect from the men atop the battlements - rain beginning to pour from the heavens even as the incarcerated fraud (who had been thrown into the gaol the very day before) was shouted at in broken Westron to dress and follow a group of armed men back to the courtyard or the keep where Baranor had been allowed to enter and asked to dismount for his own good.

"Both of you," grunted Leofric, pointing at Baranor ([@DrunkasaurusRex]) and snarling at Cole ([@Vor]) as he was half-dragged to stand beside the far nobler specimen of Man, "follow me."

It would not take the pair long to reach the great hall, and to enter it, just long enough for the Serpent to answer the King before their arrival.