While the idea that one could predict how daily events may go based on the weather has been a trope in literature since biblical times, the morning our plot begins with could neither be said to be particularly ominous or awe-inspiring. While it may be expected for Jack Frost should be sweeping the courtyards with a thin layer of ice, the morning was not cold at all, coats were unbuttoned and collars were pulled at as servants started making their way through the castle and farmers began sewing their seeds. While the cloudy sky was pierced through with the blaring sun, the weather was not the same for the Lutairians than the people of Hiertania. Most of the land of the descendants of elves and dryads was covered in forest, giving a dark canopy and making sure the ground underneath retained its dewy moisture. Far to the West, over the sea and far away, the weather remained as dry as usual with a small hint of wind. Travelers from Oasis to Oasis were even suspicious this wind could be an omen that the next night would be an icy one.

Just hours ago, there had been word that thugs lining the borders of Lutaires and Hiertania had been captured after trying to cross the border of Tiadan with their spoils. Fire and smoke had blazed for hours in the general direction of a small Lutairian village and while many of the Hiertanian commoners that lived near the border worried that the fire would grow ever closer, they did not care for the loss of life. The Lutairians were foreign creatures with barbaric customs that could never be trusted by the general public. All wares of from the villages was to be heavily laundered before being trafficked over to wherever someone of the black market could be found. While pillages were common in the area and around the border, what caused such an outcry was the thug's origin.

Both Lutaires and Hiertania were notified at the same time. Word was sent to Adrian de Hiertania, the current Regent King of Hiertania along with a second copy sent to the bedroom of the bedridden King Adhemar de Hiertania. Once the message was assessed, Adhemar sent word for the Regent King to be sent to his bedchambers and that the Crown Prince was to be notified of this happenstance.

The Queen of Lutaires watched on with horror, calling for warriors to assess and help the situation, thinking maybe it might be time to start a discussion between the two kingdoms. Tiadan had never really been openly hostile with Lutaires, which could mean this violence was a one time thing, but... There needed to be some kind of action, and soon. Word soon spread through the castle of Lutaires, reaching the ears of all the high officials, noblemen, and warriors that were currently inhabiting the building.

Virka Munni was in a room that wasn't his, distracting the palace chaplain who secretly wished his friend would go away and come back later. "So there were only two dogs, but the visiting lord was so eager to catch the white hart that he didn't care, and they rushed off anyway. But Lord Amery was a fox hunter, and these were his favorite hunting dogs. Now, soon enough, those two dogs started baying and howling, and the chase was on! The visiting lord hadn't spotted any deer, but he knew he could trust a dog to smell the prey when it was still out of sight. Well, they -"

Virka's story was interrupted by a messenger entering the room. "Pardon my intrusion," he said, "Lady Mariana sent me to make sure the chaplain is praying for the current situation on the Hiertania border."
"What situation would that be?" asked the chaplain.
"Tiadani bandits, sir. They were caught on the border, but a village was terribly burned. Everyone fears the worst, and is quick to point out how unhelpful Hiertania is."
"Thank you, you may go."
After the lad left, the chaplain turned to his friend and said apologetically, "You'll have to finish your story another day, it seems." He then opened the roof latch of his study and climbed the ladder to the angamnara: the sky tower. Virka had never been up there, but from what he had heard, it was a simple room with four short stone walls and no roof, where the chaplain could pray and worship in the fresh air without distractions.

As Virka turned and left the room, he considered the ramifications of the news. It was serious business, so the usual grin was absent from his face. His eyes still glinted, but with excitement rather than glee.
The yadi would be the place to go. Virka would always tell foreign dignitaries that the yadi was the courtyard, but to Lutaires it was more than that. It was the centerpiece of the palace: a lush garden with tall, healthy trees. People congregated there, ate there, studied there. Most rooms entered into there (or into a hallway that led there), and the yadi itself did not open directly into the street. So people would not disrupt the atmosphere of the yadi in bumbling around and asking for directions.

Upon entering the yadi, Virka was not disappointed. There were many groups of people conversing in hushed tones. But from the words he caught, each group had the same topic. (Well, except those two oddities in the corner. But they were always talking about toads.)

It's always about him.

From the very first light of dawn seeping through the tattered holes in her window curtains to the last flicker of the candlelight in the evening, the auburn-eyed prince seemed to squeeze in every nook and cranny of her thoughts. This morning, as Anatole sat straight on her bed in the wee hours of the dawn, already the young prince flashed in her mind. She knew of his suffering, his desperate clamor to be appreciated like his brothers. Though prince Rowan may not have known it, Anatole always did her best to learn more about him every single day since the moment she became his personal servant. She knew of his sleepless nights; and while he toiled relentlessly, tearing through scroll after scroll of knowledge, she stood outside of his quarters, ready to attend to any request he might have. Though her eyes threatened to shut close in fatigue, Anatole believed that if her charge refused to rest as he worked hard to obtain what he had now, then, she had no right to rest as well. She remembered how her ears would perk up in attention once the constant clatter and crumpling of papers and books would cease, signalling that the prince, more or less, fell asleep due to exhaustion. This would usually signal for her time to enter the prince's quarters, tidying up his mess as she sorted the scrolls and books on his desk, neatly filed and organized. Then, her heart would clench and flutter as her eyes swept upon the exhausted Rowan.

She recalled tugging the groggy prince up, leading him to his bed as she helped shimmying off his shoes and vest to leave him comfortable in his casual clothing. Like a mother with her child, Anatole always tucked the prince into bed in nights like this, and after she drew the blanket over his chest, she would take this silent opportunity to rustle his rather untamed onyx locks until Rowan's breathing calmed. This lad, no, this wonderful man oozed of ambition and strength. And, though, he didn't exhibit his own potential and abilities in the more traditional ways of the sword, tongue, and gallantry, she still saw the makings of a wonderful leader of Hiertania. No one was to blame for the prince's seclusion, none but the ailing king who failed at being a father. Truly, Rowan deserved to experience-- not just know-- the love that he never found at home. If anything, Rowan deserved to be the king more than Luthier, because if someone can still rise and persevere despite being left in the snares of cold and isolation, then, that certain someone is already stronger than most. Rowan is already stronger than the black-haired, smiling idiot who bathed in the affection of both father and mother. The same went for the third prince who kept going on and on about poetry, believing that he was destined to become the greatest bard of all time when his words sucked as much as his swordsmanship skills. In all honesty, she wouldn't mind helping the third prince stumble upon the edge of a cliff... or the pointed end of a pitchfork with all his baseless arrogance.

Rowan was the needle in the haystack, the diamond in the rough-- it was just a shame that no one saw his potential as Anatole did. But, she dare not pity the second prince. He did not deserve to be pitied; rather, he needed the support and trust of his countrymen-- two things that Anatole had a lot to give him.

He never really appreciated Anatole's efforts, but as long as she saw the smile on his face, then, perhaps, everything was right with the world again.

You'll always be the king of Hiertania to me. She thought to herself before leaving the quarters to finally get a good night's rest.

---

"You're suppose to cut the fish like this, Dothy." Anatole explained, incising two lines in the grouper's side. "This allows the heat to pass through more effectively when you cook it, and thus, the insides will be tastier. Now, you try." She handed the knife to the woman who nervously took it before proceeding to cut. "Don't be so stiff." She commanded, and immediately, Dothy exhaled to relax her nerves.

Immediately, Anatole's head snapped to the side, seeing one of the cooks busying himself with the contents of a pot at the far end of the kitchen. She clicked her tongue before fixing a deadly glare in his direction.

"Ahmar," Her voice sliced through the quiet early morning air. "Don't try to pretend to be busy by washing your hands inside the pot. The wheat is in the upper cupboard. And, don't think I didn't notice your constant search for the sack of wheat. Your eyes were everywhere."

Ahmar uttered an anxious affirmation as he dashed off to retrieve the sack just in time for another troublesome duo to enter, lips locking against one another in an intimate expression of affection. However, the moment their eyes landed on Anatole, they parted for dear life.

"Didn't expect me here, did you? Now, go wash your hands before I broil your lips together!" Anatole pointed the ladle at the two lovers before they bolted off to their respective stations. Early morning meal preparations were always tasking, and it was only when Anatole took part in the routine did things make sense. In fact, the only time that meals were served on time was when she headed the breakfast cooking. The quality of kitchen help was deteriorating, and he had the blasted king to thank for that. Then again, if he couldn't take care of his second son, then, what could she expect with the type of people he hired?

"Hey, Ana!" Ahmir called out as he brought in the sack. "Have you heard of the news lately? Apparently, some bandits were found in Tiadan."

"And, this is related to making porridge... how?" Anatole raised her brow, stirring the pot of porridge in front of her.

"Come on, not everything is about cooking!" Ahmir replied in an exasperated tone as he raised his hands in surrender. "Look, this act of aggression is new on Lutaires' side coming from Tiadan. This might prompt the queen of that country to ask for some help from the neighboring kingdoms."

"And, look, I feel for those pixie dusts at Lutaire, and I certainly support catching those thugs," Anatole huffed as she faced Ahmir. "But, there are more important matters to discuss. Like, how can we improve our services to the crown, and even how can we overth-- overwhelm the crowd when prince Luthier will finally become king." Or, just slunk off and smile at everything whenever he helped someone, like a dog expecting praise. That's what he does best anyway.

Anatole turned back to the porridge before deciding that it was finished. She sighed, heaving the pot to the side as he thought of Rowan once more, and how he rightfully deserved to stand in front of the people he loved so much with the crown on his head.

Damn it. Even now, it's still about him.

And, maybe, it always has been.

---

The sound of metal striking metal was music to Adrian’s ears as he parried another one of his assailant’s heavily telegraphed slashes.

It had always been easy for the noble to lose himself in the flow of battle. After all, there were no sensitive egos to worry about stepping on here, no insufferable advisors constantly nagging him, and perhaps most importantly, his next move was always obvious to him. He turned aside another intense blow, but this time he pushed forward immediately and in one smooth motion he brought his opponent tumbling to the ground. The man landed with a rather ignoble crash behind him, joining his two fellow guardsmen. Deep down, Adrian knew that the self-satisfied smirk that was creeping into his expression must have been an insufferable sight for his sparring companions, but it had been far too long since he had this kind of exhilaration coursing through him.

“Come now, I thought you whelps promised I was going to break a sweat this time,” he boasted, despite his breathing being much more ragged than he would ever admit. He lifted his practice sword so that it rested on his shoulder and turned his eyes to the three guards struggling to their feet, one eyebrow raised.

“I wouldn’t look so high and mighty captain, your age is going to catch up to you one of these days,” Malcolm, the first of the guardsmen to get back on his feet, retorted good naturedly.

Adrian’s smirk widened into a full on smile. It had been a long time since he had been a captain of anything, what with this whole regent king business that had been thrust upon him. “Please, when I’m old, gray, and sitting in my rocking chair, you sad lot still won’t be able to score a hit on my beautiful face.”

The comment earned him scoffs and more grumbling, but it only brightened Adrian’s already good mood. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and graced the modest courtyard with its presence. The castle had plenty of more impressive ones, but Adrian had always been drawn to this one with its lonely willow tree. And it was against that sorry piece of wood that he propped himself up against on this rather unremarkable morning, enjoying the last few minutes he had before he had to get back to being the regent king. These sparring sessions were becoming more and more infrequent, but the escalating tensions between Hiertania’s oh-so-lovely neighbors had been eating up most of the man’s free time.

The sound of footsteps cut through the prince’s thoughts and echoed throughout the small courtyard. “Your expression speaks volumes about the good news you bring me,” he said all too dryly to the rather grim faced messenger. “Gentleman,” he addressed his men with a brief nod, “I do look forward to the next chance I get to thoroughly trounce you.”



Adrian ran his hand up the side of his exasperated face and then combed it through his hair as he climbed the stairs to his brother’s chambers. The messenger’s news did not surprise him much, as pillaging on the border had unfortunately become rather commonplace, but as it was the latest in an ever growing string of hostilities, it was only a matter of time before large scale violence broke out. It was unclear where exactly the bandits hailed from, but the details in the message led Adrian to suspect they were in fact Hiertanean. Nothing could be proven quite yet, so for now he would see what his brother wanted.

And there he was, in front of the doors to his brother’s chambers. Of all the times he had entered the room, Adrian could not recall a single time he had opened the doors “properly.” Most notably, there had been the time that he had actually kicked the doors open when he first heard about his niece, Ihana, and demanded that she be brought home. Adhemar hadn’t let him anywhere near his tower for a solid month after that one. “No sense in changing now,” he muttered to himself, throwing the doors open overdramatically and then proceeded to waltz into his brother’s room like he owned the place.

“Good morning brother, I was told you wanted to see me,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Multicolored hair flew through the air as a teenage girl finished reaching for the final apple in one of the local trees. Her hand reached up, and no matter how much she waved the appendage and tried to grasp it by reaching further and further, the branch simply swayed back and forth as if defying her capabilities, the apple dangling at the end of it.

Fine. This is going to have to go by the hard way.

The girl started shimmying along the branch, which was now bending just slightly due to her bodyweight. Closer and closer and - there! The apple entered her hand as she yanked it from one of the capitol's orchards, a smile of brief victory crossing her face as she looked down at the person assisting her.

SNAP

With a yelp, the princess was sent plummeting towards the earth, crashing into the ground with a solid Thunk. The assistant ran over, but breathed a sigh of relief as laughter filled the air rather than a wail of pain, the unharmed apple lifted upwards defiantly as the princess let off a smile despite the scrapes on her arm. "I got it, fear not!"

The person assisting her for the day simply facepalmed, and the world continued as it was with apples being picked throughout the morning.

---

As she returned to the Palace, the princess was placed in a slightly more formal - and clean - dress, the green fabric flowing comfortably in the slight breeze running through the air. Soon enough she was wondering the halls, whistling in happiness as she headed into the palaces Yadi, where most people went to spend some time in the fresh air. A flute was in her hand, which she was ready to play hopefully to the delight of everyone within. Out of all the roles of the nobility, maintaining a high morale was the most important of them all.

As she entered into the courtyard though, her smile quickly turned into a frown. Groups that normally interacted openly were instead talking in hushed tones, as if reacting to bad news ...

Oh please ... not again ... This was usually the reaction of her people after a raid of some sort - depressing, sad, and most of all divided in their resolve. Some were angered, seeking revenge. Others sought to appease. The princess herself was unsure of exactly what was going on though, and violet eyes darted around the courtyard in search of someone well informed.

Her gaze fell onto one of the ambassadors for the crown - a young, cheerful, and gregarious man by the name of Virka who was always the life of the party. He was well liked by most, including the second princess herself. The noblewoman approached with a slight sense of nervousness, preparing herself for the worst. "Hey ... Virka. What happened? Everyone's ... you know ..." Her eyes darted around the courtyard, making it obvious what she was referencing about.


The sixty-odd year old man would have kicked himself for not having been there for the impromptu morning practice that had occurred, but with age comes rest, and he had personally led the guard on a five mile training run around the countryside the previous day, in full armor, while wearing backpacks full of bricks. Such intense training is what made the country strong, and what made boys into men.

He had led them of course, the younger guards seeming to be unable to keep up. However, he was getting prouder of them by the year, as they always seemed to be catching up to him, each generation of trainees getting nearer and nearer.

The old man stretched, old bones making various strange sounds as they almost seemed to snap into place. A morning routine went by, practiced over the years. The beard groomed, long green tunic thrown over, longsword at his hip - looking at his personal display case though, he debated bringing Sterklinge to breakfast. It'd give him something to clean while he was there.

Soon enough, the champion entered the dining hall adjacent to the kitchen, sitting himself down at one of the highest ranked tables casually and cleaning his greatsword that seemed like obsidian as it remained still. Based on the sounds from the kitchen, and the general negative demeanor of the cooks, food would be good this day. And most importantly, on time. That hellish servant of the second prince was likely ensuring that everything was cooked to perfection yelling various orders at the ladies working beneath her.

Virka flashed a smile to the girl who greeted him. "Hey, Fay," he replied amiably, "There was a border raid, but I haven't heard the whole to-do." He glanced up in thought. "I may get sent on an errand soon -" he looked back down and winked at the girl, "-then I'll know better than anyone what's going on. But what say we go ask your mother? She oughtta have all the details."

Virka led the way toward one of the fancier doors out of the yadi. He had noticed the scratches on Faylinn's arm and thought, "Good for you, kiddo." Jumping into things and getting messy was the most thorough way to learn.

"Ah, Vörn," Virka cheerfully greeted the guard at the next door.
"Sorry, Virka," Vörn said, "The queen is busy and said not to let you in."
"Not to let ME in?" Virka grinned at that, then pushed Faylinn forward slightly.
"Well, how about this sweet girl? Surely she wouldn't mind her own daughter stopping in."

Vörn glanced at Faylinn and bit the edge of his lip. What the queen had actually said was, "I must attend to this matter. Don't let anyone bother me while I do, especially not that lout Virka." But that usually didn't apply to the royal family. But did the princess actually want in, or was she just spying for Virka? "Um,-" Vörn began, but Virka had begun talking again.

"Of course, you could just tell us all the news yourself. Being a foreign diplomat, I of course must know all the details. And surely the queen's private guard would have heard more than a common street guard."

Now this was something Vörn could do. "Oh," he said, "I know that Her Majesty has General Viska and Lady Ský Tunglið with her, and that she sent Fela and Leita out almost as soon as she heard the news."

Virka was familiar with Fela and Leita, the brother-and-sister scout duo. They wouldn't dilly-dally. But what were they sent to learn? Motivation was clear, and if they were trying to catch someone who hadn't been apprehended with the others, Grípa would have gone too. They must be tracking the bandits' trail...backwards?

"Why, they're tracking the trail backwards!" announced Virka, not one to let his genius go unknown.
"Uh, yeah," replied Vörn in a tone that said he'd thought it obvious, "We can't take any definitive action without being sure of where they came from."

Alecto thoughtfully took another bit of the apple, letting the juices permeate her mouth. It was fresh and fragant, emboldening her straightforwardness to procure one from the basket she was carrying on. Here and there, she eyed the soldiers getting up, rubbing their sore backs. Words were exchanged, somber glares were witnessed. Alecto pondered on the exchange that had taken place. Truth to be told, her gaze had been on the King Regent. Her half brother. He was infuriatingly talented. Truly a blessed of the sword.

And given his taunting, he was well aware of his own skills. The Knight of Sin pondered on what to do with him. Sure, she could crush a lot of knights in name only with her physical skill alone, but this King was a rare beast. She would probably want to avoid direct confrontation and focus on her maid guise. Not to mention there was also the matter of a champion in addition to the regent.

Flicking her raven her, she breathed deep as she hefted the basket of apples, and headed towards the kitchen. She had taken an hour for a ten-minute chore, and her particular choice of master, that of the second prince, equally talented and egotic as the regent, would no doubt meet her lax behaviour with disapproval. But she was not Alecto, she was Ally. And she was rather incompetent.

"I brought the apples!" She chimed in, as her brown eyes met with those of Anatolia, who was acting very tense. That girl... it was obvious what she really wished from the prince, but she still insisted in playing the rules of servants. And... did she just admit she endorsed the second prince ovethrowing her elder brother?

"Oooh, Ana, you must like the master a lot." She jeered. "You know, you could eat an apple, fall asleep and then wait for the fateful k-i-s-s." Ally said, as she fumbled around with the basket, without a care of the world regarding her tardiness.

---

Ský glanced up from the parchment she had been engrossed within, the murmurs of those around her grabbing her attention. Had she heard correctly? Bandits along the border with Hiertania? She looked around the small garden she was occupying, one of the more secluded locations that was scattered around the palace grounds. She was sat on an elegantly carved wooden chair which overlooked a serine shallow pool that was covered in lily pads with bright violet flowers, fuzzy reeds interspersing them. Across the small glad there was a trio that were huddled stood under a huge willow tree in rapid conversation.

She watched and listened to the conversation intently now, the parchment containing the thoughts and musings of Pywaln Ulfur forgotten as she focused on the words of those three across from her. She caught several snippets before she was sure of what she was hearing. Ský stood and quickly approached the trio that were speaking, recognising one of the young nobles, a man named Esjar whom she had spoken to on many occasions and so she approached him with a friendly expression.

“Lady Tunglið” he said with a slight bow as he spotted her approach and turned to face her as the group fell silent.

She smiled softly at each of them as she responded with a curt nod of her own before she asked “Esjar my friend, sorry to intrude but did I just hear you correctly? You said bandits have attacked somewhere?”

His expression dropped solemnly as he nodded “They say a rider arrived not even an hour ago baring the news”.

“The village of Ombel they say” interjected one of the others “I heard these raiders were outfitted better than any normal group of outlaws should be. Someone is testing our defences if you ask me, prodding for a weakness to exploit!”

“I would wager they were funded by the Hiertanians” added the third young man “neither they nor the Tiadains respect our boarders or sovereignty.”

Each of them looked at each other, a somewhat familiar sense of foreboding falling over them. It would not be the first time that other Kingdoms had probed the peaceful and as they saw it vastly different kingdom of Lutaires causing violence and death.

“Please excuse me” murmured Ský as her mind was sent reeling at the implications, a slight feeling of nausea washing over her. She turned and in a brisk pace made her way through the winding paths that lead her back towards the yadi. She paid little attention to what otherwise would have been a very pleasant stroll, the fresh morning air giving the forest a feeling of vibrancy and life as the morning dew lingered in the shade cast by the huge trees. Her mind instead was on the implications such events would have, the serenity of the woodland realm lost on her this morning.

She emerged into the large open space and was momentarily taken back by the large number of people that were already milling around in little groups chatting with each other almost frantically so.

A few moments later a small group of soldiers appeared from the direction of the barracks and made their way swiftly into the palace swiftly. She noticed the glistening hem of a general’s cloak fluttering in the morning light that flitted down through the branches, however she did not see who it was. Presumably if the rumours were true then the queen would be calling her advisors together to decide upon a course of action. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of further conflict and bloodshed. If only the world were content to live in peace and prosperity instead of turning upon itself whilst power-hungry rulers tore at the vulnerable and innocent citizens of Lutaires. She of course had never interacted directly with any of said rulers, thus far her only interactions with the other kingdoms had been very limited and with vassals of much lower station – but from those interactions alone she had learnt the biased and cruel treatment that she and her countrymen often received, which would undoubtedly be mirrored by those in power. Several passing people greeted her, often with a curt nod or bow which broke her away from her thoughts as she politely returned their greetings with as much of a smile as she could muster.

A few moments passed and a servant darted out of the crowd before her and with a swift bow the young bright haired girl blurted “Lady Tunglið, the Queen has requested your immediate presence in the throne room.”

Ský was momentarily taken back by the summons, after all, prior to the passing of her mentor Ambassador Grár she had answered directly to him. To think that at the Queen would ask for her so soon after such an incident sent her head swimming.

“My lady?” came the voice of the messenger after her brief moment of hesitation.

“Yes of course” replied Ský as she regained her composure “Thank you Aletta.” With that she quickly made her way across the yadi towards the elegant doorway that lead into the Royal household, the guard standing aside as he saw her approach. She swiftly made her way down the elegant hallway and wasted no time as she made directly for the throne room. As she arrived a guard again immediately opened the door for her and so with her heart somewhat racing she entered. In the throne sat the queen, beside her was General Viska who had a deep scowl splayed across his features.

“My Queen” said Ský as she bowed before the Queen. Turning she repeated the gesture to Viska before she continued “you asked to see me?”

Adhemar had already been notified by his former messenger of what his brother had been doing when the news of the raid was delivered, he had been sparring with the guard...? That lunatic! A King had to worry about policies and civil affairs, how the bloody heavens was his brother supposed to do that when he was at risk of being injured or using too much energy?! It was a great honor to be made Adhemar's proxy regent king and rule over the kingdom, and this wasn't the first time the old timer wished he hadn't given such a man that kind of power. If Adhemar hadn't thought that only royal blood could govern over the land and that Luthier was far too wimpish and young to rule, he would have sent off his lunatic brother to go off on one of his skirmishes again or whatever he usually spent his time doing.

That brother of his needed some kind of discipline, but Adhemar was in no shape to give it out. Being confined to the four corners of his probable deathbed, his words just weren't taken as seriously or threatening anymore and it wrecked at Adhemar's pride and dignity. Lots of healers had come to examine the poor King, only to have either all have a different kind of diagnosis, or just not understand what was ailing him at all. And because of this strange sense of fatigue and coughing up blood, Adhemar had given up sitting at the throne all day, much to his dislike. The man was given secondhand news on the kingdom at large and he had no one to make sure his sons stayed in line... except for Adrian. If the ludicrously large man hadn't had so many uses, Adhemar may have sent his brother off to join their sister years ago. But perhaps he would have come back anyway when the witch died.

There was a crisis at hand, as always. Adhemar had heard plenty of cases about how thugs originating from his kingdom would plunder and pillage the border villages of Lutaires. At first, the King had, for good reason, expected their Queen to retaliate with war, but all was very quiet. One could only assume the outlandish country was too weak to start some kind of conflict with the great Kingdom of Hiertania and Adhemar continued to not press the issue of apprehending the thugs, letting them run wild and seeing how the outlandish creatures would react. It was kind of fun to imagine the Queen weeping and shuddering from the loss of life and supplies, but also shuddering in fear of invoking. His. Wrath.

But Tiadani thugs coming into Lutaires from Hiertania would just not do. It was obvious that the men thought they could pass off as Hiertanians and try not to get into conflict with Lutaires while still keeping a neutral relationship with them. This quite angered the King as he made servants prop him up so he could lean against a towering pile of pillows to look better than he really was. Actually having to lay flat and entertain guests was far too humiliating to him. Adhemar expected his bothersome brother to come in at any minute and after their true reason for discussion, he could somehow work the conversation around to getting him to stop with his fighting tomfoolery.

The loud sound of wood and metal cracking itself against stone pierced through the room and Adhemar started to shudder with rage. Also, the look in his brother's eyes made the King itch to call upon his best assassins to torture and kill his own closest blood relation.

"After our main discussion, I will be calling on Galeran to see a change in schedule as a form of discipline, you are not to disobey our conclusion," Adhemar spoke between clench teeth that sounded awful in how they grinded together. He straightened his slouch before going into a fit of coughs, one of the maids in the room went to help him before Adhemar finally caught his breath. "I wish to speak to you about the recent pillage and slaughter of a Lutairian village. While the thugs that were to blame for this incident appeared to move and look like Hiertanians, my men reported that they were Tiandani in origin. What is your take on the matter?"

@Sarcelle Renard

It is an undeniable fact that men and women alike have a tendency to talk when alcohol is introduced into their system. Such a fact was quite apparent in the life of a barkeep, tasked with serving the inebriated and dedicating an ear to their ailments. The young Bettan Castor generally had no issues with the rumors and tales that spread from numbed tongues. They offered a level of entertainment throughout his daily activities that many other servers were not quite as privy to. He was careful to keep the tales as just that, entertainment. Unless a reliable source could be cited, he believed not a word thee drunks would offer up. Though his disbelief sometimes caused problems (some men got defensive and aggressive when the veracity of their hunting stories was doubted), he mostly skated by just fine laughing along with hiss customers and grinning brightly to all.

Sometimes, however, there was a hush that came over the Pale Poppy's mess area. The men wouldn't meet his looks, preferring the amber glare of their own drinks. Most didn't dare speak against the silence and those who attempted were hushed viciously. Bett recognized these moments well and it caused him to become very much aware of his younger age. Some of these men had been coming here since he couldn't eve see over the bar and still viewed him as that bumbling toddler. These silences were meant to protect him, keep him from worrying. There wasn't a soul in the Pale Poppy that wanted to see the lad frown.

Bett dropped a glass down on the bar in front of Jarius, an easy target. The stout man had retired from the war with a bum hip and a big grin, telling everyone he would have paid even more for the stores he got from it all. Yet, the pain he experienced daily drove him to Bett's panacea and made him weak for the offer of free spirits. Even now, he carefully eyed the glass in front of him. A few of the surrounding men hissed their disapproval.

"Now." Bett said, voice louder and firmer than it usually was. His hands rested on either side of the drink, bordering it as it still rested on his side of the counter. He leaned down so he could be eye to steel colored eye with Jarius. "What's goin on here then? 's got to be somethin serious, yeah?"

Jarius' eyes dropped away from Bett's only to focus on the booze just out of reach. A good sign. He was sweating in his seat, no longer truly resisting, but simply elongating his defiance for his own pride. His tongue wet his lips, his hands gripping slightly at the curved edge of the bar. He would break, Bett knew it. The barkeep pushed the glass just a little bit closer to Jarius' fingers. Anticipation filled the room, everyone silently snarling at the veteran to just leave it be.

Jarius would have broken, Bett knew, but his informal interrogation was cut short by a woman's voice. Bett's mother called from the front of the inn, her station during daytime hours. His steady glare was broken as he turned her way and the whole tavern seemed to release a sigh. Bett cast one last annoyed look around to everyone, watching a room of eyes look askance.

With quick steps, he followed his mother's hail and met at her desk. She sat there with her delicate grace, one hand resting atop of the logs, the other holding onto her timepiece. It was the most expensive thing either of them owned and it got quite a bit of use.

"It's two o'clock, chuck." The woman informed him, her lips formed into a delicate smile.

Bett returned a smile with a vibrant grin, also glowing in her presence. He stepped in and planted a kiss to against her crown while she laughed lightly at the affection. "Sure thing, mum. Thanks for the reminder."

A few minutes later and Bett was meeting the Pale Poppy's supplier at the usual corner. They had sent their son this time, barely more than a babe, even compared to Bett. He wobbled under the burden of his cart, looking seven leagues past relieved when he finally was able to come to a stop and met the man who would relieve him of his load. The kid was three heads shorter than Bett and he found himself instinctively bending his knees to face him.

The boy was breathless and bright red, but not simply from the exertion. Instead, he absolutely buzzed with excitement, bouncing on his toes with energy he shouldn't still possess. He had something juicy, it was obvious.

"What's got a hold of ya, lad?" Bett asked, already reaching to inspect the crates loaded onto the cart. He opened the lid of one, finding a pleasing amount of bottles inside. As he shifted it closer to himself, the containers resonated with that gorgeous melody of clinking glass, and god, it was probably Bett's favorite sound. Still, he noted that the supply was smaller than usual, a box short.

Tren looked as if he had only lived up until that moment to hear that exact question asked of him. He let out a breath so hard it nearly knocked him prone and his hands clutched inflexibly to the handle of his vehicle. He teetered so far forward, Bett was curious if his feet were still even planted on the ground. "Bett, can you believe what's happened?"

Bett's eyebrows rose and he crossed his arms before himself. Amusement curved his lips. "What? That ya managed to forget part of my order, again? Naw, 's pretty believable, dunce."

The child's face began to color and he gasped, his eyes quickly flashing over the crates. He let out a defeated groan as he realized the truth. He had once again forgotten the full load back at the distillery, a image of a tarried crate abandoned against the doorstep entered his mind. Still, his shook his head of this small set back and was bouncing on his toes again in moments. "Sorry, Bett. Wasn't thinking 'bout that sort a thing, somethin crazy happened!"

"Well, out with it then!" Bett shook his head and continued to smile.

Tren reached into the crate closer to him, dragging something out and into the light. It was a sleek looking magenta bottle, intricate vines crafted in the glass, curling towards the cork. Bett recognized it immediately and his smile dropped away. He stared silently for a moment, before shaking his head quickly and yanking it away from the child. He held it up to the boys eyes accusingly, a scalding storm overtaking him.

"Tren." Bett said, voice firm. "This is Luairi wine. Speak up now, where did ya get this?" The lad had a habit of sticking his hands into flashy pockets, generally of the wrong sort. Bett was very familiar with which pockets were the wrong ones.

The boy squirmed, clearly having expected to receive greater praise for his endeavors. He turned his gaze away, a angry pout forming on his face "The venders outside of town have loads of this kinda thing. Lots of Lutairi stuff floodin' in. Bett, I got it for you, don't be so cross!"

Bett clicked his tongue and tucked the bottle back into the crate, careful to hide it from view. "You'll get yourself into mighty big trouble with those sticky fingers, Tren. Head home, off with ya now."

Bett watched the boy scamper home with a highly disgruntled air about him. The barkeep was unhappy as well, signature grin lost as he carted the supply of alcohol home. First, the bar was behaving like a damn funeral, now the black market was overflowing with Lutairi goods. Something very unsettling must be going down over the border. Hopefully, whatever it was wouldn't affect the town any worse than it already had.


Caden worked his jaw to the point where it ached as he sat upon a stool in the Luitairi palace's grand kitchen. His sharp amber eyes were focused entirely on the root in his stiff grasp, followed his dull knife as it grazed across the flesh. The thick peel curled as he cut it away, falling over his fingers and into the waste bucket below him. He sliced with quick movements instead of attempting for finesse. He completed each root rapidly, the finished products tossed into a pot at his side. There they waited to be lifted by a cook and set atop the stove.

To a bypassing stranger, he would have been the picture of a dedicated worker. However, every soul in the royal culinary staff viewed on with concern. Their attention was divided between glancing his way and actually completing their required assignments. Caden may have been employed as a hunk of muscle for the crown, but this was where he had started out, right within this very kitchen. There was not a foreign face among the bunch and even if there had been, Caden returned here often enough for a newcomer to know him just as well.

So they could tell that there was something wrong.

Still, no one was willing to interrupt him, even as he surpassed the amount of vegetables they really needed. Because had been there, he had been on an assignment close by the settlement when it was attacked. He know had the burn on his arm to prove it as well, the ivory bandage stark against his darker skin. Despite their closeness, the staff had absolutely no clue how to ease his distress. They had barely gotten to the point where they could recognize it.

Bellina passed by his little corner and ran her fingers through his hair affectionately, displacing the strands. She was ignored, as was any one else before her that had offered their silent discomfort. Still, as she passed on, he glanced her way and almost wanted to sigh.

They were so nosy. He didn't have time for the emotions they thought he was suffering through. At least that's what he told himself, the thought a harsh growl in his mind.

His eyes roamed over his hands, trying to convince himself he couldn't still feel that little girl's hand clutching at his. He had dragged her from the flame, scorching his bicep in the process, but saving her life. She had held onto him with bother of her hands like he was the only solid thing on this whole damn earth. Her home was destroyed, was nothing but ashes. And so here she was, clinging onto him desperately.

His thoughts consumed him so fully, he didn't realize he'd nicked himself until the blood started pooling up on his hands. A curse fell past his lips and he abandoned the roots to go and wash away the scarlet liquid.

"What do you think they'll do?" Tabeitha asked him quietly, stepping in beside him. She reached down into the sink and helped the him wash out his cut. Caden grimaced. "An attack like that… It just never stops, does it? What is Her Highness going to do?"

The swordsman glanced towards her gentle face, saw the way she looked at him so hopefully. She wanted him to say those magic, nonexistent words that would make everything better. The words a child begged their parents for when there seemed to be nothing but despair all around and they needed to hear peace.

Caden didn't specialize in peace. He pulled his hands away. "Who's to say, Beith. Wager we'll find out soon enough."

That response was met with a very unhappy silence.


She loved the area along the border more than anywhere else in Bellvar. The way it cooled off and nourished its own foliage, the greater frequency of pools and settlements. You could taste moisture in there air and it felt like electricity. People along the water seemed to have their own glow about them, their own mystery. Everything was more vibrant, more exciting, more alive. For right now, however, she was really loving its water.

A sigh leaked from her lips, originating from deep in her water filled stomach, and she let her head fall back. Her feet stretched deeper into the oasis pool that they so recently discovered. Her hands rested behind her, keeping her propped up and allowing her to slide her fingers through thriving grass. She reveled in the feel of it as she let her aching soles soak. They had already filled every water container available and set up camp for the coming night, leaving her with absolutely nothing in the world to worry about. And that was exactly how she loved her days.

"Rajun." She called out to the slanted trees and grassy earth they so rarely experience. "You must dip your feet in here, it is simply rejuvenating." She swirled her toes in the liquid, causing the water to slosh higher up her ankles. It splashed subtly and she practically cooed at the noise.

She knew the oasis life. The ability to take cleansing bathes whenever one wished, to sit under shade not created by a piece of cloth. To live amongst a proper society, seeing more than three people on any given day. Those were the sort of luxuries one grew to miss while indulging the traveler life, yet those were exactly the things she found herself wandering away from. Deeper and deeper she went into the unknown until she met with discovery, adventure or death. This was the life she was born to live. Not one formed by water monopolies and politics.

It had happened again. That was what the whispers called through the large courtyard called the yadi. Everyone was speaking with somber tones about another raid, a-and how fire had enveloped the village. The damn thugs had gone back into that scum kingdom to sell off their spoils and nothing had been heard of from them since. Fela and Leita had been sent out to assess the situation and while Nendir's legs ached to take off and ride along with them, the man knew he wouldn't be any use. All that was left was the wreckage, no lives to be heard of were saved, everything burned to ashes. If anything, all the trip would bring the poor man would be pain and he could fall into one of his old terror episodes... Which Nendir was determined not to let happen ever again.

Nendir had stayed in the shadows or up in the trees as he continued to listen, trying to gather his thoughts and emotions. The Queen needed to do something- anything and it would have to be soon. And, by Nature, he would be included in it too. Nendir was going to hit something and alert everyone of his strange position before long, so he sat down on the branch he had been balancing on and knocked the back of his head against the great tree's torso. What he needed to do was appear stable and ready or they wouldn't let him anywhere near the border. It was only for his mission that Nendir had been determined to become a bodyguard for the ambassadors of Lutaires and he would make sure to protect anyone who was in his charge even though his mission came first.

For now, Nendir had to make some interaction to stop whollowing by himself. He jumped from branch to branch until he reached the ground, moving out of the bushes and almost giving some of the nobles a heart attack. That smile- The one he had on his face almost at all times throughout his time in the palace appeared on his face as he gave a little happy wave and let out a small laugh. He weaved through the crowd of people, hearing the sounds of the Faylinn, the princess, and one of his charges, but choosing instead to go find his favorite pass time. His comrade in every sense of the word, his fellow bodyguard Caden.

He entered the kitchen from a bit away and saw Caden's interaction with the young girl. Obviously, he was feeling troubled about the incident and when Nendir thought about it, ah... he had had an assignment near Ombel. Such a perfect stereotype of self-blame could not escape the bodyguard's vision as he watched the other male work on one vegetable after another. Now if it had been Nendir himself, he would have peeled a few with that same knife, swiped a fruit and hightailed it out of there. But Caden cutting himself like that was just a little too much for the blue haired man himself, he silently moved to sit where his comrade had sat when peeling, picked up the knife and vegetable he had been working on and inspected, skimming off a few unnecessary layers.

"Now that is no way to speak to a child, my friend," He gave a reassuring smile to the small girl and slipped one leg over the other as he continued, "the Queen'll be doing something soon My Lady, we just need to have faith in her." He cocked his head over in the direction of the rest of the peeled veggies, "And you oh handsome and brooding one need to stop blaming yourself or you'll end up cutting a finger off with that blade you take so much pride in."

---

It hadn't been very long since the two of them had just been finishing up all the work that needed to be done that day. Rajun had mended clothes, rather poorly if it were by someone of high standing's standards, helped Maella bring all the containers back over to the caravan and helped out setting up the large fire out back where their supplies were. But being here, not only was there amazing water that one could drink with no reservation, there was also vegetation to be heard of. Trees, Rajun loved trees, being able to climb a couple branches and take a nap had always been a dream of his. Unfortunately there were surely outlived, while the boy was good at shifting his body into many different positions, he was not very good at understanding how to lay his body out on a branch and not slip off. The boy had tried this maneuver countless times now and each would end with a resounding thud. Rajun didn't actually encounter that much pain, so he didn't let any of his voice out, but he probably did bruise his back a little. Dust covered most of him as well. He couldn't understand what he was doing wrong, so the boy would just keep trying the same thing over and over.

That's when Maella called him over. Rajun got up from the ground he had been inhabiting for the past minute and started walking over. The boy had leaves in his hair and a bit of grass stains on his butt, those were new. It would have to be washed out soon, but then again, the originally white clothes had already taken on a tan or creamy color. His chest was bare as always, but had a few chains that usually were slipped around his neck missing, he had traded them the other day for a new pair of sandals for Maella. Of course, he hadn't said a word as he had given them to her, and in turn, she apparently hadn't used them today, though that might have been because of all the grass on the ground.

Rajun padded over to her and slipped one foot down, a surprised look coming over his usually expressionless, sleepy face. He gave a happy nod before slipping both feet in, having already wrapped his pants up higher as to not get them wet. After taking a second to savor the feeling, he slipped in further so he was standing in the water and gently grabbed onto one of Maella's ankles, working to knead the grass and dirt off her foot. Rajun wasn't a man of many words, so his sudden actions could be rather surprising.

@KiwiBaer

Waking up to the sound of rustling papers and ink bottles clinking was a morning ritual for the third prince. Balthazar liked to say he kept his room tidy without the help of servants. However, in reality, it was just so the staff would stop going through his stuff while they were cleaning. He had severe paranoia to the point where he trusted no one, and to the extent, he keeps the fact he's paranoid to himself. He also knew that most of the staff gossiped about him and minimizing their exposure to his private life was considered the best course of action. So when he woke up in his bed and spilled an ink bottle in the process it was a surprise to no one. What was a surprise to Balthazar was that he woke up in his bed. He usually tried to sleep, couldn't, and wrote poetry until he fell asleep on one of his three desks covered in parchment, quills, and ink bottles. However, this morning he woke startled by the fact he was sleeping in his own bed, leading him to fall out of his bed, covers and all, and knocked over an ink bottle in the process. His entire room is covered in writing supplies except for the fireplace and his piano because he doesn't want any of it to burn and he is fond of his piano. Before he goes to breakfast he washes his hands in his basin (to avoid getting ink on the keys), and plays his piano a little. Although he cannot read music, he knows exactly how every key sounds. He plays two songs leaves and brings his breakfast to the garden. He finds a part of the garden with a tree (that has the least amount of bees) and sat down to eat his omelet. After finishing he pulled out some of his poetry to review for spelling and grammatical errors. After finding only a few missing commas he decided to go back inside. There he found servants bustling through the halls and thankfully not giving him the time of day as he hummed through the halls avoiding his brothers and fathers rooms completely while heading towards the library to finish reading all of the owned fantasy books again for the fifteenth time. This was much to the bookkeeper's dismay who repeatedly stated,
“If you would stop rereading those fantasy books you would have read the whole library by now!”
Which was true but that didn't mean that his highness was going to do it.

It shouldn’t be too long now.

For the third time in a row, Rowan read through the section of the thick and dusty book. He hadn’t been able to find that many books on alchemy – certainly not in the royal library – but this one had served him well since he had begun learning several years ago. It was rather worn-out, with the occasional tear in a page or stains from an ingredient, and covered in his own hardly intelligible notes. It was preferable that he be the only one who could understand it, anyway. For months now, Rowan had been creating a serum – a poison meant for his father. There was no poison like the one he had desired in the book – the ones listed in his book were for potions that would kill quickly. But he needed one that would take some time, one that would require many small doses and make the death seem natural. So a fair bit of experimenting was required, which had concerned the young prince immensely – after all, this wasn’t something that could be done wrong. No, everything had to be perfect. It would be perfect; he was growing increasingly sure of that now. His father had reacted perfectly to the serum, appearing to fall sick just as an older and no doubt stressed man would do. And the reason that Rowan was so riddled with nerves and excitement was because, according to the research he had done, it was almost time for his father, the King of Hiertania, to perish. And after that, Rowan could begin to take care of the other issues standing in his way. Most importantly, his older brother.

Though perhaps such a strong emotion was unfitting for a ruler, Rowan hated Luthier. He was naïve, foolish, and yet he was the one who was to be given the throne? To rule an entire kingdom? Not just any kingdom at that, the mighty kingdom of Hiertania. There was simply no way that his brother could handle that responsibility – Hiertania would certainly crumble. Rowan knew that by getting rid of his brother, he would be saving Hiertania, and that thought alone drove him on. With his skills and his passion, Rowan was absolutely certain that he could bring the kingdom into a new Golden Age. And if he had to make some sacrifices along the way for the greater good, then so be it.

The book slammed shut. Rowan stood up, feeling the familiar mix of confidence and nerves rattling in his stomach. He knew that the next few days would require the utmost precision and thought. There was no room for error. After putting the book back into its place, he left his quarters to begin his daily weapons training outside. As he walked down the stone corridor, he overheard the voices of a couple servants.

“They burned the whole village down last night, that’s what I heard anyway!”

“How awful! What if something as scary as that happens here?”

They quickly ceased their conversation as they passed by the prince, but Rowan’s curiosity had been piqued. He looked towards them sharply.

“What happened?” he asked tersely. The servants looked bewildered that he was speaking to them.

“Um...What is it you mean, my lord?” one of them asked awkwardly. Rowan suppressed a scowl. He never really spoke to most of the servants; they always seemed so slow and ill at ease. Though a few of them at least were more tolerable - his own personal servant came to mind.

“I heard you speaking of a village that burned down. Where was this?”

The servants looked rather surprised. The other one piped up, “Bandits trying to cross the border of Tiadan, my lord, they attacked a village!”

Rowan frowned. “And why wasn’t I informed of this?” The two didn’t answer, instead just shifted awkwardly. With a curt nod, Rowan dismissed them and walked away briskly. He felt himself brimming with anger again – a not too unusual occurrence. He resented the fact that he was never kept updated on the happenings of the world, especially events that could influence Hiertania. His father, or anyone else for that matter, clearly didn’t care enough to inform him – clearly didn’t believe that his thoughts mattered. Rowan gritted his teeth as he entered the courtyard. He was sure Luthier had been immediately told of this raid. And if Luthier was king, what could he do if something like that happened on Hiertania’s soil? He would be too weak to handle a situation such as that.

Rowan’s sword slammed into the wood target – his vigor had increased with his anger. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long until this sword was buried into the chest of his dear older brother.

---

Even from the doorway, Adrian could clearly see the unbridled fury his brother was quite literally shaking with. Nobody else in the castle dared to aggravate the king, as his temper had only gotten worse as his sickness did, but Adrian refused to let Adhemar’s childish tantrums continue without reproach. So with his usual swagger, he approached the foot of his brother’s bed. The room was dimly lit, as if to try and hide the king’s declining health from onlookers. Not that it helped much, as there was no concealing the unnatural pallor his skin had taken on or the weariness that clung ever so tightly to his eyes. Truly, the man before him was a sad, empty shell of the brother that Adrian loved and respected, but still, in his own way, Adrian refused to give up on him.

An eyebrow was raised at the king’s declaration of Adrian’s discipline, a silent challenge that went unnoticed as Adhemar descended into one of his awful coughing fits, but the regent said nothing about the matter. Galeran would no doubt be overjoyed to have royal permission to get Adrian fitted for a tighter leash, but his ability to enforce such a thing would be quite amusing to see. All of the poor servant’s previous attempts had been so far thwarted, as Adrian had gotten quite good at derailing him with long, pointless tasks. But still, this time Galeran just might have enough support to actually pose a challenge. And Adrian enjoyed challenges.

A look of genuine surprise colored the regent's face when his brother continued speaking though. It was obvious that the king was not going to lose any sleep over the loss of Lutairi life, in fact Adrian suspected that he actually enjoyed the thought in some sick way, but it was somewhat odd for Adhemar to ask him for his thoughts on the matter. For a long time now, Adrian had been under the impression that his dear brother equated his insights to that of a mule’s, so for him to be seeking his input now… ‘What is he playing at?’ he quietly wondered to himself.

“Truth be told, I find it quite perplexing,” he began, scratching the back of his head in feigned bewilderment. “Time and again I have tried to rid us of these disgraceful bandits, in keeping to my promise to you for a ‘quiet and peaceful kingdom for Luthier to inherit,’ yet time and again my men keeping returning to me empty handed,” he said, his tone becoming rather pointed. “And now it seems that you are even better informed than me, the acting regent, on the various identities of these walking disgraces that seek to shame us.” Adrian allowed whatever implications could be derived from his conjecture hang in the air for a precarious few seconds before continuing, making sure to cut off whatever interjection his brother might think to spout. “Some individuals might even come to the conclusion that you are purposefully letting these men make a mockery of our kingdom by letting them run out of your control,” he said, his voice dropping quite low but with the steel of a man that had commanded authority for decades. As he spoke, Adrian had circled around the bed to stand next to his brother, all but towering over the sickly man.

His face took on a seriousness that was normally reserved for the battlefield and his eyes pierced straight into his brother’s weary ones, looking for any hint of guilt in him. Adrian was well aware that he was playing with fire here, but he knew that all the evidence he would need would be found in his brother’s expression should his suspicions be true. It was simply unnatural for the various groups of bandits to have eluded his men for as long as they have without outside interference, but none of the other suspects aside from Adhemar made sense to the regent. And if there was any way to infuriate the king into a confession, it was to insinuate that he was disgracing his kingdom. Of course, if taken even a step too far, Adrian ran a very real risk of recieving a rather intimate introduction to the headsman’s block, but he couldn’t think of any other ways to know for sure if his brother was indeed responsible.

“But of course, I am no such man,” Adrian sighed nonchalantly, all of the challenge in his voice and expression instantly replaced with his normal carefree self. “I am merely a second rate regent doing his best to fill in his dear brother’s rather large shoes.” With that, his trap was set. Now all he could do was watch if Adhemar would take the bait.

Well, that and pray to anybody listening that his neck wouldn’t have to give his head a teary goodbye later in the evening.

---

@AimeChambers

"How droll," A cold smile curved the servant's lips, her body veering away from the finished pot of porridge as she took the glinting knife from its sheath on the table. Eerily, her footsteps thudded against the stone floor as Anatole sauntered over to the tardiness-ridden maid who believed that she could do anything she pleased without getting any consequences. "For someone like you to think that you know what others desire in their lives when you can barely make sense of yourself in the morning." Her hand raised the knife before plunging it downward, stabbing an apple at its tip before Anatole flicked the fruit upwards as she caught in her palm. Without a wasted moment, she began slicing the apple in crisp strips, and tossed them inside the nearby serving bowl without even looking. "I know you take pride in being ineffective. I can see that in your eyes whenever you seem so amused when you break the sanctity of time. And, while others tolerate your mediocrity, rest assured that I will not." By the time Anatole finished the small tirade, almost half of the apples from the straw-woven basket sat sliced in the bowl. "People like you who waste time, who waste purpose are so enclosed in their little worlds that they forget that they are also stones in the kingdom's foundation. You believe yourself exempted from the rules, so entitled to your own benefits that you begin to believe that you know others when you barely even know how to respect yourself. Stones like that... are removed from the foundation, and replaced with a better material."

Finally, Anatole picked out the last apple from the basket as she slowly pierced the knife through the center before splitting the fruit in half, revealing the rotten core.

"Bad apples," She gestured to the darkened insides, and then, she threw the fruit into the waste bin. "Are thrown out." The servant's unfaltering gaze lingered on the maid as she shot out her hand to remove some apple bits which stuck to the sides of her mouth. "Aw, you wee lamb." Anatole furrowed her brows in mock care. "I suggest you swallow an entire apple, and wait for a prince to revive you. That way, someone will watch out that you don't accidentally stab yourself in the foot. After all, that's every fair maiden's dream, isn't it? A prince who will coddle them because they are afraid to soil their hands." Smirking, Anatole took the bowl of apples before placing it in Ally's hands with a gentle pat on the backside of her palms. "Make yourself useful."

The steadfast servant began mobilizing the kitchen crew into formation in order to facilitate the food serving. With the servants heaving pots and bowls of foods, Anatole arranged them accordingly from those with bread and pastries to fruits and vegetables up until the ones who served the poultry and seafood. Soon, the whipped crew assembled behind the kitchen doors as Anatole began her final inspection. From time to time, she approached one of the servants, giving them a reassuring tap on their shoulder before gently smiling at the nervous and anxious employees.

"Good job today, Erick." Anatole smiled, patting the lad's head. "The lettuce you harvested were nothing but fresh. Well done." And, to another, she also gave a comforting hand on the back. "I liked your creativity with the sop today, Krixa. The flatbread was a nice touch."

After she finished her rounds of assessment, Anatole wiped the sweat from her forehead as she cranked the door open which directly lead to the dining area.

"Forward, march!" She sounded, causing the servers to walk out of the kitchen in a neat single file as, orderly, they placed their assigned food on the table as well as the utensils and the personal plates before they turned around and left still in a single file lane. Finally, Anatole herself came out, carrying the large pot of steaming porridge with a cloth around her hands to dampen the heat. She heaved the pot in front of her, making her way towards the table before setting it down where she took a step back and took the lid off. "Breakfast is served."

And, just as she said these words, the roosters' cry echoed out from the outside walls, signalling that she was just in time. Anatole bowed to the people present at the table before she spun around, pumping her fist just near her chest in delight that she finished her first objective of the day. Her strides exuded confidence as the servant made her way out of the dining room and back into the kitchen where the weary staff lounged about, exhausted from the hell that Anatole afflicted upon them. But, before anyone could leave the room, a relieved chuckle escaped Anatole's lips, her face brightening into a gentle smile as she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"I'm proud of all of you today. Now, just because I won't be handling the other meals does not mean that you can all slack off." A devious, almost scheming smirk replaced the grin on Anatole's lips. "I'll be paying attention, very close attention to the future preparations." The woman sighed as she turned around, leaving the kitchen through the backdoor as she decided to make her way towards the training grounds where she expected Rowan to be training. It had become almost a routine for the second prince to practice his skill with the blade at the early hours of the morn, and while she was more than willing to help him out with training, she believed that someone else was more fitting for the task-- probably, the captains or the other formally trained soldiers. Still, it didn't mean that she would just watch on as he committed certain flaws and errors in his stances and styles.

The prince's ability really did not lie in his strength of the arm, but of the mind. But, Anatole nearly questioned her own presumptions just as she saw Rowan driving his sword through one of the wooden training dummies. The prince was not always capable of such a feat of strength as those dummies were made from the sturdy oaks and sycamores lining the kingdom's borders, but the sight was far from disappointing. In fact, Anatole felt those butterflies fluttering somewhere down her stomach. Without even meaning to do so on the prince's part, even the simplest act drew out a myriad of emotions from the otherwise stoic servant, and she cursed herself for such a weakness. So, before she approached him, Anatole let out a series of choked breaths to calm herself down as she paced around the hallway in an infuriating loop. But, finally, Anatole found the will to revert back to her neutral shell which allowed her to walk calmly towards the second prince.

"Prince Rowan, you've been training hard." She bowed upon her approach, and then, her eyes landed on the sword embedded through the target. The servant turned towards the dummy before she placed a reassuring hand on the sword's hilt. "Fine strength, my prince. But, if I may, you are placed too close to the enemy with your lunge. If the foe persists to live even with this blade in their chest, you are in range for a fatal counterattack." A sad look overcame Anatole's eyes as he realized that while Luthier received the best training from the castle's finest tutors, the king didn't bother to send a decent tutor to train Rowan extensively-- merely teaching him what he already knew which was infuriating at the very least. Anatole breathed deeply, deciding to change the topic away from the favoritism of the royal family, and to focus instead on matters which involved Hiertania as a whole. "Bandits have dared to cross Tiadan, and right into a lutairi settlement which they pillaged. The lutairi queen might send word soon for aid, but with this kingdom's seeming distaste for the lutairi, I doubt there will be a positive response."

The prince's visage spoke volumes of the suffering he went through. The sleepless nights, the suppressed emotions, and the painful isolation-- he deserved better; gods, she wanted to give him better. But, this was his fight, and the least Anatole could do for the man was to become a pillar to support him on his way to the top. After all, from the very moment she became his personal servant, she promised to see his dreams through to the end. At this thought, her hand sifted through her pockets, bringing out a hairbrush which meant only one thing.

"Do keep still, prince Rowan." She huffed, pretending that such an act didn't fill her heart with warmth. She brushed his unruly hair back, trying to tame it as a ringleader would towards a lion. Then, she pulled out a cloth from another pocket to wipe off the sweat glistening on the prince's forehead, and to outsiders, it would seem like a mother was taking care of her child. "There." Anatole spoke, keeping the grooming tools in her pockets once more before she turned towards the dining hall. "Breakfast has been served, prince. I know that you are not tired yet," A tiny grin formed on her lips as she took it upon herself to pull out the embedded blade out of the dummy. Next, she swished the blade through the air with a snap of her wrist, causing a drop of sunlight to scatter and refract from the sharp edge. "But, a spot of breakfast is always great for starting a new day." Then, Anatole spun the sword in her hand, ultimately holding it at the hilt while the blade pointed to the earth. She then extended the sword to the prince as she nodded towards the direction of the dining hall. "Lord Adelbrand is already there, and I believe he might be more than willing to train you, my prince, given that not many can endure the champion's rigorous tendencies."

Direct Interactions: @AAB
In Area of: Lutaires Courtyard

Faylinn frowned slightly more as her fears were confirmed by the diplomat, but in spite of herself she was slightly happier due to his overall cheery attitude. The man knew how to keep things upbeat if he had one ability under his belt. The pair started to walk towards the throne room, the duo meeting up with a guard.

The pair of them had a brief exchange, but it was very apparent that the crown was still trying to gather the details ... it was rather obvious their neighbors hadn't really put forth any effort to stop this raid, from whichever one it originated with. The people in those kingdoms were heartless. It hadn't been so long since she was caught up in the attacks at one of those places herself, and her attempts to bring heart to her people had largely failed.

Of course, she didn't want to mentally accuse Hiertania without Fela and Leita completing their investigation, but it probably was them. Her kingdom and theirs had been at odds for years and ...

"... hey Virka? I know it's a bit optimistic ... but do you think there's a way we could stop these animosities through a different method? Forever?" The princess way trying to contain herself, but this was infuriating. Even when the kingdom somehow managed to get reparations, the monetary compensation was minimal and people just kept on getting killed by the next year.

Being personally trained by some of the best swordfighters, Luthier was fairly skilled with a blade. It seemed however today's instructor was more skilled, a lot more. And not only was this man really skilled, he was also ruthless. He showed Luthier a drill and gave him a minimal number of times to do it, not allowing him to leave before finishing them. After Luthier was done with the drills, (also fairly tired) they did another sparring match and once more the instructor worked Luthier into the ground. Training went on for a while like this.

By the time Luthier had finished his sword-training, he had long missed breakfast. His morning schedule was mostly free to allow such a rigorous form of training, though he was supposed to study in the time between his sword-training and the next appointment. Instead, Luthier went to the stables to feed Marrow. He stopped stopped by the kitchen for some apples and went on his way to the stables, settling for an apple as breakfast.

At the stables Luthier was immediately drawn to Marrow, a beautiful snowy-white mare with bony-white manes. Giving her one of the two remaining apples and a pat, Luthier smiled, beamed even. He knew he should've been studying, yet he didn't regret coming to the stables as it never failed to cheer him up. He fed marrow the last apple. It was funny if you thought about it, the crown prince was seen as the wimpiest prince, yet his horse was the strongest and most unruly. She was fiercely loyal to Luthier, but since Marrow was just a horse she couldn't hold conversation. As such, Luthier wouldn't stay very long.

Luthier turned to leave the stables, as a tired messenger arrived. "Sir, I've been looking all over for you, but you weren't in your room and you had left your sword-training by the time I arrived there." After taking a moment to recompose himself, the messenger explained what had happened across the border and excused himself. Luthier left for his study, deciding he would ask his uncle about their plan when he saw a good opportunity.

Ally smiled sheepishly, as she let the routinely tasks wash any hint of animosity. She took the blows in stride, having failed to provoke an amusing reaction from the too-strict-for-her liking princess aide. She did what she know and what she could, which was just nod and smile like a moron, not reacting to the jabs. However, the incompetent maid seemed to flinch negatively at the invasion of her personal space by Anatole, who proceed to throw her insult back at her.

"Yeah, a dreamy prince. That'd be nice. Ah well." She let out, sighing in bliss and holding back the temptation to engage in japes with what had become her self-appointed chief of staff. She was more like a little tyrant, but castle servants were such a spineless lot that they flinched upon her orders, and lapped up her obligatory compliments, who looked more like generic moral boosters of a squad leader rather than genuine ones. Even if they were really genuine. Still, Ally allowed her clumsy disguise a reprieve, and decided to act somewhat competently serving the breakfast.

Besides, that old fart of the Captain of the Guard was there, with that eerie sword. She dedicated a gentle smile at him, as she served him his food. A well fed dog was a complacent dog. And given her state of affairs, with her black raven hair and actual skills, it was better for the all the hounds of the kingdom to be so lazy and intoxicated that they would be unable to catch a cripple as he tried to run. She needed to be beneath notice in order to have a chance of success.

Still, she decided not to dwell into much about it, and she just kept to her breakfast duties, partly because she didn't want to be the center of attention, but also in order to catch any piece of juicy information from the gossip that could further her goals. She didn't need to wait too much. Apparently, his majesty the Crown Prince, had visited briefly the kitchen rather that sitting down and having the juicy meal someone of his stature deserved. Then, as servants had recalled, the second prince had failed to appear. And Anatole, his loyal womanservant had wasted no time in excusing herself, before heading towards the exterior.

Weapons training again, most likely. Alecto sighed to herself, as she picked up a tray and several dishes, and she skillfully arranged a breakfast set. "That boy he's far too dilligent. No matter if it's the second prince, he can't be skipping breakfast." She said, feigned concern in her voice. Even so, the denizens of the kitchen considered the token statement good enough, and she deftly paced towards, following the path outside where Rowan and Anatole were.

Such a playboy, he's got already the poor little girl wrapped around his finger. Alas, she's bound to disappointment. Rowan does not love anything but the power that he craves. So wonderfully disgusting. The black knight in disguise thought as she advanced with the tray, in a rather bold stance. "M'lord, here is your breakfast. I personally saw that you got a ration befitting your stature. Please try the apples, miss Anatole spent a good deal of time cutting them. It would be an honor for her if you were to delight yourself in such dish." Ally said, full of bootlickery, as she placed the dishes on a table nearby, skipping a couple of steps. Her sight lingered on the blades and the sparring dummies, as she impishly picked up one of said contramptions and, as clumsily as she could swung it, while making rather comical sounds.

"Swoosh! I killed the dragon, and saved the kingdom!" She said, before adding. "By the way, the Crown Prince also missed today his breakfast. I think he's going to dote that mare of his. One would say he cares more about his steed than his kingdom at times..." She let the jab or invective without remorse, in a playful gossip. But the motivation was far darker.

I wonder, prince, what kind of music will you produce when I tug the strings of your heart?

Ihana Ongelma leaned against the palace wall. To her right was the door to the servants' quarters, to her left the door to the kitchen, and where she stood was shadowed by a pillar. Ihana knew of no less conspicuous place to hear more than she should. And indeed, she had.

"A burning house, a rabid din, wail." Ihana whispered to herself, letting the eeriness of the words affect her mood. "Their eyes will stop, their children drop, fail." She put a hand against the cold pillar. "No hope, no peace, an endless tongue. Their tribe will cease, it has begun." She, of course, was referring to the tongue of flame that had turned a village to ash. But moreso to how she expected her uncle Adhémar would react to it.

Ihana turned her head slightly as a servant entered the kitchen. That was Ally. One of the more foolish servants who bumbled about the palace. And yet, Ihana could swear that she would sometimes see whit spark in the girl's eyes. As if...
"Vengeance hiding, colored ghost: you do and show what you need the most." The words glinted through Ihana's mind. And perhaps to another they would be meaningless. But not to Ihana, though such understanding is quite unsurprising given that the words were her own.

Down the hall, Ihana could see people entering the dining hall. Clearly it was time for her to do so as well. It was not as if she had the luxury to have every meal in her quarters. And even if she did, would she take it? "No," Ihana decided, it was best for now that people would see her. Indeed, it was a way to build loyalty. "When you see me, I am near. When you've seen me, I am dear," Ihana thought. That one would need work, to be sure. But it was a phenomenon worthy of more than a verse.

Ihana looked at the apple slices suspiciously. It was early in the season for apples. And Ihana suspected that surrounding herself in apples day and night would do little to garner her affection for them. She picked up her utensils to carve into the meat pie.

---

Ský listened with her arms folded curtly behind her back, her silvery eyes focused primarily upon General Viska as he spoke. Reading from a piece of parchment he repeated the initial message that had been received for her benefit, his voice steady and unwavering as he did so.

The Queen sat in her throne had a deeply solemn expression, her otherworldly beauty unusually subdued as a grave expression of sadness covered her features.

“…furthermore it is clear that their numbers are far greater than previous raiding parties. I fear none have survived within Ombel, these supposed bandits not only taking everything of value but putting every man, woman and child to the blade before they then raised what remained of the village. Though their origins remain unclear my men have captured several of their number as they attempted to flee into Tiadain lands. I highly doubt that these men are common bandits, their arms and armour of far better quality than would be expected and their manner and demeanour that of trained soldiers. I suspect they are either Tiadain or Hiertanian troops sent to do what damage they could under the guise of raiders.”

As Viska finished the Queen sighed and looked towards her. General Viska however kept his gaze on the Queen , his expression stern and unwavering. Ský got the distinct feeling that before she had been summoned the two had already discussed the matter, General Viska obviously not quite being satisfied with whatever he had been told.

“Lady Tunglið” began the Queen “what do you make of this? Lord Sterkttré sent this message not two hours ago.”
Ský felt a sudden pressure and she gave her throat a gentle clear her mouth went dry as again the thought of so much whole scale slaughter overwhelmed her. “Your majesty” she started after a brief moment of thought “I cannot think of any who would commit such acts against our people, the very thought of it sickens me. Even the Kingdom of Hiertania which makes no secret of their apathy and their people’s...” She hesitated to find the right word “...distaste of our heritage and way of life, I would not imagine they would act against us in such a way.”

The Queen seemed to absorb her words, her expression unchanging as she listened. Though of course Ský had been in may audiences and meetings with the Queen, she had only recently began to report directly to her with the advancement of her station. To have gone from an apprentice to Royal Ambassador in one step was quite unorthodox, though there were many who were more than supportive of the decision, Ský herself felt incredibly cautious and even overwhelmed at her new responsibilities and duties.

General Viska turned and with a slight tone of distaste said “The words of a diplomat my Queen, I am afraid as I have said the realities are quite different”.

Viska was a man quite unlike the majority of his kinsfolk, he had an extremely tactical and logical mind and was pre-disposed to think more like full blooded human when it came to martial matters. “I do not believe it is enough to dispatch just Fela and Leita to investigate this. After years of peace they believe us to be weak and unable to defend ourselves. This is a test of our defensive capabilities my Queen, we cannot afford to do nothing. We need to show strength.”

Ský’s heart quickened at the very thought of a war spilling out, the thought of more pointless death and destruction making her knees feel a little weak. Despite her mind’s urgings to remain quiet and accept what Viska had said, she forced herself to object “Though that may be true, we have nothing to suggest it is. If we were to send any kind of sizable force to our boarders can you imagine how either Kingdom would react? It could easily be interoperated as provocation, aggression even.”
General Viska looked to be about to retort before he thought better of it, a slight scowl settling on his strong features as he nodded in acknowledgment at her point. The Queen retained her steely composure as she considered what had been said.

Eventually she spoke with a calm but stern tone “I believe you are correct General, we cannot afford to do nothing should your suspicions be confirmed. However to act rashly and in haste would only cause further troubles. Lady Tunglið, I believe it would be wise for you to begin to prepare yourself, it is likely that when more information presents itself you will be called upon to arrange a diplomatic mission. General, though it pains me to say it, I would too like you to prepare for the possibility of our men being called into the field, though I stress it is only a slight possibility. We must do all we can to avoid open hostilities with any Kingdom.”

With that General Viska bowed and turned to take his leave, Ský too followed his example and with a bow she left. Her mind was swimming of the implications of what she had heard, and even though the rumours she had heard prior had proved to be right she hadn’t truly expected there to be anything more than a simple bandit raid. She emerged into the yadi and took a deep breath of the outside before she noticed both Princess Faylinn and Virka Munni in conversation.

Ský made sure she composed herself as she saw them, her normal pleasant smile returning to her features as she took a step towards them.

“Princess Faylinn, Ambassador Munni” she greeted them giving each of them a curt nod.

Ský had known the princess since she was young, both being raised in the courts of the capital, however the last few years they had seldom spoken since Ský had taken the position of Ambassador. Faylinn had changed much in that time, now a young women in her own rights she certainly looked different.

As for Virka she had not had many opportunities to meet or converse with him beyond the usual minor pleasantries, one or both of them usually away representing the royal family where needed. He had been an old favourite of the king, or so her mentor had explained a few years ago to her. He had seemed to struggle to explain the reason why the King was so fond of him, personally feeling a diplomat should possess more ‘tact’ – or so he had explained to her once he had consumed a glass or two of wine. Ský had of course dismissed his comments, being that he always seemed a little more...stuck in his ways than others and prone to passing judgment on those who differed from that showed as he saw it appropriate behaviour. All she knew was that his missions were generally successes and he seemed popular amongst the noble lords and ladies.