"I've done nothing wrong!"

The young prince's lamentations echoed through the Court of the Dead, but fell on deaf, or rather, unsympathetic ears. Unmoved, Lord Octa merely cocked an eyebrow as the dread knight dragged him and the others to the dungeon.

"Do you know anything about this?" Asked the dark lord of his bald-headed servant.

"Yes," Agael reported. "Lord Keledan Tobler of the Heathermarches did in fact offer his heir as a token of submission to your majesty. It is customary among the minor lords to the east to grant their heirs until their coming-of-age to other lords in order to curry favor and solidify alliances. Lord Tobler certainly wishes to align himself with your majesty, and given the location of his realm it is easy to see why."

Little wonder indeed why Lord Tobler would want friendly terms with the dark lord. Though it had been a full generation since Lord Octa had assembled his hosts to conquer neighboring lands, the surrounding kingdoms and realms feared nothing more than the dark lord rebuilding his former power and beginning another wave of inexorable conquest. Those realms to the immediate east of Lord Octa's dominion, in the Heathermarches on the eastern slopes of the Felmurg Mountains, would be among the closest and most accessible victims of Lord Octa's renewed wrath. Lord Tobler's would be the first lands to be invaded if the dark lord ever crossed the Felmurg Mountains.

"Go and speak with this prince after you have debriefed Vatikar. Perhaps the Tobler boy will also be of more use to me alive," Lord Octa ordered, resuming his seat upon the black throne.

"As you wish, your majesty," Agael said, bowing low once more before excusing himself from the Court of the Dead. Carefully, Agael hid his eagerness to leave the Court and the immediate presence of Lord Octa.
[hr]

In the lower reaches of Lord Octa's keep, hammers rang against hot steel and bellows breathed life into roaring forges. Perpetually smoky and hot, the keep's armory was nearly as infernal as any brimstone-ringed pit of the nine hells. The assistants of the dark lord's veteran smiths barked through the cacophonous din, carrying out the orders of their taskmasters. Though they were diligent in their work for fear of receiving a horsewhipping for shirking their responsibilities, the smithhands could not help but gawk as one of the dark lord's dread knights escorted a scantily-clad elven girl through the armory. Outsiders were a rare sight in this place, and the voluptuous elf was the most beautiful thing these soot-caked laborers had seen in a long time indeed.

Heavy bootfalls sounded through the armory, now unusually quiet for the brief pause from the laborers watching instead of working. The sound of these chainmail-reinforced boots immediately galvanized the laborers back to their duties, and the chorus of labor resumed again to the armory. Through the churning smoke of the forges, a hulking figure approached Assallya and her escort. The clinking of chainmail was heard with every swaggering step. The orange light of the forge fires flickered against the armor plates of the approaching figure's cuirass and pauldrons. Seated in between the pauldrons on wide shoulders was a blocky, scar-pocked face of a man who had earned such marks by emerging triumphant from many horrific battles. A tattered and filthy cape of black silk was chained to his pauldrons and draped down to his ankles. At his side was the bald headed servant Assallya had seen before.

"This is Sir Vatikar," Agael introduced to Assallya. "He and his retinue will briefly outfit themselves for their quest here before leaving to find his majesty's missing prisoner. You will assist Sir Vatikar in this search by any means available to you. His majesty, however, has expressed that time of the essence. Find this prisoner quickly, the consequences of failure are more unpleasant than I care to discuss." 

Vatikar looked down upon the elf with a gaze not dissimilar to that of a dog eying a hock of ham hanging just out of reach. "Let us not be waiting, then."