"What a fucking circus." The thought had lingered at the forefront of his brain since the coffins first appeared at the doors to the Grand Cathedral. "The pageantry wasn't enough when they were alive, now this shit."

He shifted on his silk cushion until his neck clicked and he let out a soft sigh of relief; instantly ruined by a pain somewhere else. "When I die I hope they sling my body in the fucking river and get it over with."

Royal Archivist Karl Müller-Hohenstein, Archduke of the Stormlands, Duke of Steinland, and Lord-Admiral of the Starry Sea, had no illusions about his end. He was a cripple incapable of producing children. If one of his enemies didn't get him, he had no doubt Michaela was ruthless enough to remove him if she had too. Still, he hoped she would at least let him die in peace.

Here, in this building, a monolith to Gods he did not believe in, he was at least as safe as one could be. No shortage of hidden daggers awaited his command and his spies had told him of no ill intent on the part of the Noble houses, yet. Yes, his official roll as the Royal Archivist might have died with the King but until a new King, or Queen, was chosen, the agents he had spent so many years cultivating and training would still report to him.

He caught a man from one of the Northern houses glancing his way and flashed a smile of broken teeth. The man looked away quickly and Karl could not resist a mirthless chuckle "No one likes a monster.".

The Cathedral was emptying slowly, the heat and stink caused by so many bodies crammed into one space was finally easing and he was alone on his bench. Two soldiers stood by in Stormlands livery, their eyes never ceasing to rove the space around them.

"Bartholomew, help me up will you." Karl grunted at last to his man servant who had sat in front of him. The Lord of the Stormlands might not give a fig leaf for any sort of religion but his caretaker certainly did.

The man moved with a calm patience, offering an arm so that Karl could stand; sharp needles of pain beginning to shoot through his legs as the blood returned to him. His cane, a basic wooden affair that everyone assumed had a sword in it, was ready at hand.

"A sword!" He had always privately laughed at the idea. "What good would a sword do me? I suppose I could cut my own wrists in case of capture."

Click.

His left ankle clicked on every step, threatening to fold inward at any moment. It had happened more than once.

Tap.

The sound of his cane on the finely polished marble floor, now scuffed by a thousand boots.

Drag.

His right foot, more or less a clubfoot if he was honest, dragged slightly behind him as he walked.

The rhythm of his life accompanied him as he shuffled toward the Cathedral doors. He was well aware of the looks of pity from those who believed physical ability was all the mattered, and the sharper looks barely concealing wary watchfulness from those who knew just how dangerous the Cripple Lord really was; no secret was safe.

"I could use a drink," The thought was an idle one; his gums were hurting and running his tongue over them only irritated them more. "Maybe if I drink enough I'll bloody well drown myself."

At that moment he caught a flash of red-hair among the crowd of nobles and he felt his heart swell with pride. There was no doubt in the minds of those who knew Karl just how important his daughter was. Not only did she prove that he had once been a real man - capable of loving a woman and giving her a child - but she gave him a reason to fight his way out of bed every morning and see to his duties as a father and lord.

And fight he did. On more than one occasion he awoke to a bed stained with his own shit, unable to get to the privy in time. Everything hurt, he had no balls anymore, and every waking moment was a trial in patience and self-reflection.

Michaela gave him a reason to climb out of those soiled sheets. It would be easy to lie down and die and, as he watched her laugh at some joke, her white teeth flashing, he knew that he would do anything to see her happy. His own happiness was a forgone conclusion, it was dead and buried, but he could ensure a strong future for her.

He looked about the Cathedral, the young would be Princeling was nowhere to be seen but Anyarama of the Crownlands was still nearby. She caught his gaze and inclined her head slightly, how bowed in return, as much as one could while holding a cane. Though none would care to admit it, whichever claimant could woo the Stormlands to their side would certainly carry the throne.

He straightened up painfully; a crick had formed in his back and it protested as he began to walk again. He ignored it like so many of his other pains and shuffled onward, his black robe - trimmed with a grey/blue - slapping against his ankles as he went. Bartholomew and the guards fell in behind him he passed into the sun that streamed through the open doorway and into the fresh air beyond.

Evening - Frostmark - House Vyapult

A Collab from BcTheEntity and Red Watcher

Pronunciation

Vah-ran-gih-ri-an

Mer-tah-vo [as in vote]-dah

Sneh-hoe-vah-Luka

Vin-dah-tah-lair

He could feel the half frozen, half wet ground beneath his feet. While he couldn’t always hear the sound it made, the crunching beneath his feet gave him some kind of indication of why children love to jump into the leaves or stomp their feet. With great pain he was leaving the mountains behind, but things in the wind have shifted. Something violent, or so the Wind Father whispered in his ear. So, he reluctantly agreed to go to this Marble People funeral.

“Why are you even laughing this Marble People funeral?” Snehova’luka asks.

“I heard funny things about the Marble People funeral,” Mertavodah responds.

“Like what?” Snehova looks at him.

“I hear the put people in boxes,”

“How do their Spirits move to the Other Plane?” Vindhögtalare hasn’t been paying attention up to now, she has been actually watching the woods.

“Varangyrian told me something so funny,” Merta laughs, “He says that Spirits are in-cor-poreal. They move through things.”

“The Marble People are strange,” Snehova states.

“That they are,” Merta pauses, scanning ahead.

Kihvar then, the Marble People’s Twin Faith a parasitic serpent if you ask him, it’s the most noticeable thing. The rest of their city, that’s how you say it, is mostly of wooden and stone houses, with its - uh what’s the word - pebble roads . They do not have roads in the Frozen Tears, simply the trails left behind by thousands of footsteps on the land. If the Marble People’s oh - what it is called - church is the thing that stands out then so do they every time they walk into town. Their skin protected by the white clay they turn into paint, and their eyes coated in black as well to keep the sun out of their eyes. Their clothes are not so bright. And some people see the silver Vind to wear or he to wear as some sort of front. He’s not entirely sure the importance of silver to the Marble People. They are constantly asking for more, and are under the impression that they are hoarding it within the mountains. The Marble People do not track the Mountain Father’s steps. They do not understand his quakes. His shifts. The Silver is a gift, not to be gouged or gashed. But they want to take big tools to the stone and carve into the Mountain Father’s flesh. Here it is, the Ke-ep. Not sure what they are keeping, but that is how it was explained to him.

“Velikynaz Varangyrian?” came the querying voice of one of his servants. “The guests from House Echo have arrived.” Ah, Merta. Excellent timing; he’d been preparing for their arrival for an hour or so now, putting on one of his better red outfits to accept their arrival and grooming himself accordingly.

“Send somebody to pick them up, then,” he instructed. “I’ll greet them in the courtyard in fifteen minutes.” It was always a little amusing when Merta arrived - his lack of understanding of etiquette could be humorous and frustrating in due turn. And he’d been told that Merta had a habit of staring at the soldiers outside the gate, to the point of frightening them. Again, amusing, but frustrating.

Still, a schedule like that offered plenty of time, both for Varangyrian to finish preparations and for Mertavodah’s retinue to be brought to the courtyard, just outside Dom-Vyapult. Within ten minutes, Varan had finished preparations and arrived in position; breathing in the chill of the air, he folded his hands behind the small of his back and smiled as Mertavodah’s retinue entered the courtyard.

Probably made the soldier shake life a leaf again. Strange considering how he is not even a trained. Varan is a strange fellow, always has been. He has the clashing personality of the incoming and outgoing tide. He still clings to some aspects of the Marble People’s traditions, while attempting to learn of theirs. While he trusts Varan more than some others, it’s always at a distance. There is little Varan could do to further his trust in him. Of course he will be polite and kind, maybe even maintain their friendship. But he is always reminded that they carve into the flesh of the Forest Father.

“Varan,” Merta greets with a smile, for as long as they were maintaining their friendship he would drop formality, “I bring adequate gifts of arrival. Trinkets.” he looks over at Snehova, who is currently digging in the pocket of his robes. Clumsily offering a smoothed river stone, “We found it. Curiously shiny. And if you look in just the right light, parts of it shimmer green.”

“Merta! A pleasure to see you again,’ Varan offered to Merta, ‘and likewise to you both, Snehova’luka, Vindhögtalare.” His smile was genuine, of course, but in the back of his mind, he awaited an inevitable trinket… this time, it was a river stone, which he accepted, turning it in the light to get that green glimmer to show. So far as he was told, these items were offered as gifts under the belief that, by having been placed in their path, their Land Mother had gifted it to them with the intent of gifting it on to their host. Him, primarily. He had already accrued a shelf’s worth of such items, including a feather, and a piece of fur that the People of the Frozen Tears couldn’t stitch into their outfits. He’d found use for that as a coaster, something Merta had seemed thrilled rather than offended by at the time.

“Ah, yes, thank you kindly,” he eventually concluded, pocketing the rock to find a place for it later. ‘I’ll be sure to repay the favour when I can. Now, shall we get out of the cold and discuss business over dinner? You must be famished.”

He’ll never understand the Marble People and their need for set meals. It also takes him a significant amount of concentration to listen to Varan. It took a lot of effort to watch Varan’s lips, to catch the words he missed, and to puzzle together Varan’s speech. It was a mixture of his lack of hearing certain tones, and the language of theirs.

“Not particularly no,” Merta responds, “But you can - en-light-en.” He's sure that is the word, “Me on your Marble Funeral customs.”

---

---

Midday - Cathedral of Twin Heavens

“And remember, it is a somber occasion,” Varan reminded Merta. “We need to show proper respect for the fallen... at least for Prince Daymian. Most will not miss the Mad King, but showing as much would nonetheless be a breach of etiquette.”

“I am not going to start stripping naked at the funeral Varan,” Merta laughs, “Though your Marble People traditions are always so entertaining. In our Rites and traditions, the death of a person is a celebration into the new life. I am going to tell you in - how is it said, Er-nesty, that I am not looking forward to stepping into one of your serpent churches for a somber occasion. I think your people need to learn how to play an instrument. Make them less somber.”

“We have instruments at these,” Varan replied defensively. “They’re called organs. They’re very large. And somber. And we’ll probably also have a choir.”

“Sad instruments for sad Marble People in their sad serpent walls,” Merta responds,

“...it’s a sad occasion, Merta,” he pointed out. “Again, mostly because of Prince Daymian, who I imagine everyone in their right minds will miss dearly. Poor fellow didn’t deserve to go out alongside Colyt II… though the walls are definitely very sad all the time. Or at least disturbing, I’m sure you’ve seen the Church of Life and Death.”

“Yes, sad,” Merta responds, “But only because of Who It Is. I will never understand your kin’s jaded sense of knowledge. Death is not Sad to us. Death is the cycle of all things. And we know when we die we are greeted by the Deities and Ancestors, we crossed the Threshold into the New Life. There is nothing sad about that. And everyone is honored in the same way. Do they put what the Marble People consider the lowest of their people in sad Marble boxes in the walls of the parasitic serpent and have twisted displays of both luxury and somber et-i-quet?”

“...not in the cathedral specifically, no,” Varan noted with a nod. “I believe funerals are held for the majority, however.”

“Aye, but looked down by the Marble People, that is the point. It is a sad occasion dressed in jewels, the Marble People are so curious what they manage to display,”

He couldn’t quite argue there. It was, more or less, a grand event in all aspects: sad, but also bejewelled. Not at all like the... well.

"And what? Do you celebrate your kindred’s death?" he questioned bluntly. "It may not be sad directly, but you are nonetheless separated from them for possibly decades…"

He silenced himself as the carriage came to a halt. A glance out the window confirmed: they’d arrived at the Cathedral of Twin Heavens. Nodding to Merta, he donned the appropriate mourning shroud, and stepped out to meet the ceremonies.

“Everyone in our clan is equal,” Merta adds quietly. Varan is like the tides. Sometimes you hear the Marble People in Varan’s tongue. There is no concept in the Frozen Tears of “poor” and “wealthy”. They all die and they all are shrouded in the same way. Wrapped in cloth. Then bestowed gifts to take with them into the new life. It is not the same as the Twin Faith’s concept of afterlife. It is not a Sky Sanctuary or a Place of Peace. It is a place that exists parallel to their own, the Spirits become Guides, and messengers of their Deities.

Entering the serpent church, everything here is echoy. Sound bounces from one wall to the next. It’s quite hard to hear in here. And in truth he has no real care for the Marble People. Daymian's death means nothing to him. It’s not his kin. However, there are many things he doesn’t understand about the motives of their politics. Unfortunately there is no longer benefit to remaining neutral. Eventually someone will attempt to storm into the mountains. He has to be here. To listen. To absorb. To understand. So he can use their words against them. He will not be taken advantage of as just a mountain savage.

Varan did hear Merta’s final statement, but... what could he do? He could support a new monarch, or even take over himself if the motive struck him, but a king’s power came from their people. That was the truth behind the throne: one acted at the behest of one’s fellows. For the Loyce’s, that was the archdukes; for Varangyrian VII, that was the Princes beneath him; and so on down the line. And Merta? His whole tribe.

But, now wasn’t the time to ponder that. Quiet, he witnessed as the former King and Prince were entered, and… well. Now that he looked around, it really was a sad place. Somber, yes, and certainly grand, but… always somber, no matter the occasion. Every ceremony was somber, and at least insofar as the Twin Faith in Kivhar City went, often extreme in this idea of sobriety. “Life and Death”, no need to remind the empire they were doomed if they didn’t follow through.

And yet, the speeches given were in their own way touching. Even Anyamara had her say, and… Prince Daymian had always been kind. That was what Adanion loved of him, no? Still, the applause he offered to her was perfunctory. As for Sharles, well. A lot more personal insight, plainly. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, just a touch of ambition to the end? His applause was offered here too, though only a touch more powerful than with the Bastard Maiden. It wouldn’t do to be seen showing too much support here, of all places.

"How absolutely dreadful," Filiberta muttered to herself as the speeches came to an end, "the royal family seems livelier than everyone here." She had spent the entire funeral within the middle of the crowd, certainly far from the viscounts and peasants in the back but still somewhat distant from the great houses at the front. She was surrounded by other dukes and duchesses of the realm, many of which held realms larger than Inge, but everyone knew that Inge had the right to sit amongst these wealthy nobles.

She entered the chapel within a darker version of her usual attire. She wore a fur hat to cover her head, with a veil descending from it. On her shoulders was a broad and black fur cloak which covered her entire body and tumbled down to the floor. The attire made her form look very wide and strong, and she made sure to walk through the Cathedral with a dreadful grace. Even in public mourning she had a guise and a persona to keep up, and no weakness in this façade can be shown.

During the numerous speeches of the day Filiberta could not help but feel bored, as most of them had no passion or zest to them. Finally, one speech caught her eye, the proclamations of Anyamara. As she went up to speak two of Filiberta's handmaidens began to whisper amongst themselves about "the bastard," and Filiberta made note of this. Throughout the speech Filiberta smiled to herself, finding this performance of oration somewhat livelier than the rest. She was one of many to applaud Anyamara, and leaned towards her handmaidens to remind them, "be careful who you call a bastard now, my dears."

The following speech by Sharles was purely a laughingstock for Filiberta, although she kept herself collected. It was nothing more than a country boy pretending to be nobility, and she took note of this idea, it could serve as excellent entertainment at the next masque she plans.

Despite this small political entertainment at the end of the ceremony, Filiberta could not help but feel somewhat sad about the loss of the royals, afterall she had a lot to thank them for. They ultimately were a part of her House's rise to prominence, and they gave her a degree of protection from her enemies. With this in mind she stayed seated in the Cathedral for an extra moment, praying a short and silent prayer to herself, keeping one eye open to quickly stop should this sign of empathy be seen. Luckily, she remained uninterrupted, praying a rather archaic verse that she had been reading about in her research.

Finally, she stood and began to meander about the cathedral greeting some fellow nobles with an aloofness and eyeing up the ones she found notable. Although she would have liked to stay longer, she came to realize that the amount of people within the building was certainly building up the internal heat, and her jacket was not helping the temperature. And she knew that she mustn't take off her jacket; after all, the women of House Marietta had a history of vitality, and nothing must break that image.

Exiting the Cathedral, she made note of three key figures that she spotted. Two of them were the Müller-Hohensteins - her lieges - and the other was Anyamara. She walked out of the Cathedral at a quick pace, with handmaidens by her side. She spoke to them, "Remind me to arrange a meeting with our liege and his daughter, I do believe I have business with them both," she looked at his crippled frame walking through the Cathedral and smiled, "perhaps I'll make it a dance for the nobility of the Stormlands. And remind me of that Anymara girl, I think that some research into her would be prudent of me." She exited the building, her handmaidens gossiped amongst themselves, and she spoke one more time, "and would one of you please find a library while we are staying here, anything royal or relating to the clergy will do, I might as well get something down in this godforsaken place."

Michaela Müller-Hohenstein

Michaela stood amongst the group of greater nobles, her expression the perfect depiction of ’solemn’ and never giving away her personal feelings of the circumstances at hand as the Meretrix gave her final prayers after the speeches from the country’s crown hopefuls. Knowing her father, she was sure he had some snide, though likely amusing, commentary to go with the whole event from his perch on a bench towards the back of the Cathedral. As a cripple, it was easier on his broken body to sit, so it was her duty to represent their house amongst the greater nobility during important social events. While she has never known him otherwise, the knowledge of her beloved father’s constant pain was enough for her to harbor an extreme hatred towards individuals of the same profession that were the cause of his suffering. It brought her joy to know their skeletons still decorated the harbors back home.

With the funeral procession at a close, she turned to face her lady in waiting, Ilse, her hair sparkling like rubies in the sunlight that poured through the stained glass as she moved to speak to her brown-haired companion. Being in the thick of the procession, Michaela was starting to feel uncomfortable with the heavy hot air that had begun to build inside the building from the mass of bodies crammed within its doors.

“Ilse, We’ll head outside to meet back with my father and cousin since there won’t be a feast that we need to attend.”

“Yes, M’lady.” the young woman replied, turning to walk in step with Michaela as they slowly made their way back out onto the street. Their black dresses whispered as they walked, with the duchess’ dress more ornate than her companions and striking against her pale skin. Their boot heels softly clacking against the marble floors, adding to the chorus of all others making their way back into circulating air.

“It’s a good thing we are wearing black, or else everyone will start to see the sweat stains from this ungodly heat...” Isle commented softly as they walked, comfortable to speak with Michaela in such a casual manner. The women have been together since they were little girls and knew better than to make any important kind of conversation in such a public setting.

“It’s nice to know that with all that lays before us, you’re most concerned about sweat stains.” Michaela replied, her smokey blue eyes dancing with amusement as she spoke in a similar tone and bringing her head close to ensure no other overheard their friendly banter amongst the soft murmur of the crowd.

“Oh, but of course M’lady!” Ilse replied without skipping a beat. “It is social death for a lady to appear in public under such a primal state with body fluids flowing down our sleeves and pooling from underneath our breast bands. You might as well bring back the Pontefix and Meretix to hold another funeral sermon to lay my social life to rest.”

Michaela smiled, her face lighting up with amusement. “And have to sit through another stifling procession? I think not! I’m sure we can still find you work in some corner of the estate where your breasts and pits can sweat free of judgment…”

The two women giggled softly hiding their smiles behind hands sporting lacy black gloves, the gentle afternoon breeze playing through their gowns as they stepped back out into the world.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The carriage ride is uneventful but notable for the tension hanging over in the air. Egil travelled light, with only a few retainers of persons trusted deeply and known to be loyal. A gloomy overcast hung over much of the carriage ride, along with a grim quiet that made everyone appear stone faced, gray. and mute.

Marya, one of the last shield sisters from Illemania would tap the resting Egil on his shoulder.

“We’re approaching now, milord. Look sharp.”

Egil’s party had arrived later than most in a carriage with a lousy left wheel and tatters and scars on the right side from weather. The shabby and furred mule like horses of the Mistlands were scoffed at by their higher bred southern cousins.

“Are you prepared for this? It has been some time since Engelhardt visited here.”

“You mustn't speak to me that way. Not anymore. After today, I am a ruler and no longer a child.” Egil scoffed as he stood from the wagon, landing on his feet on the dry ground below.

“Do not forget your humility in power, my knyaz.” Marya smiled, glad to see the boy’s fighting spirit.

“And do not forget I have read all the books your whimsical proverbs come from.” Egil cocked a grin back at his lifetime companion. After this he would walk to the front of the wagon and made sure his gathered party could see and hear him about to speak.

“I will go the rest of the way with a small guard. The rest may stay and set up camp. The ceremony will go on for some time. Be prepared to leave at a moment’s haste however.”

“Why’s that sir?” A man spoke up. “Fraid somethin gonna happen?”

Egil felt a rage at the tone of the question. Still now his men looked at him but he was a mere child. They would’ve never acted like this to his father. Though that comparison brought with it a maelstrom of sorrow as well. Weight of expectations as Egil struggled to see himself as half the man his father was. He dare not voice such bottled up aggression. Marya looked intently at the lord, with eyes like that of a hawk. Be calm.

“No. Of course not. I just want to put miserable louts like you to work, now go on then.” Egil waved and dismissed the gathered men. Unceremoniously they’d turn to their given task and return to the baggage train for supplies.

Not the best encounter. Need to be better. Can’t have men second guess my judgement so openly. Maybe a punishment is necessary.

______________________________________________________________

These thoughts weighed on Egil’s mind as he moved on with his entourage of Marya and two other armored warriors through the castle gates. Servants and envoys would come to receive his gifts for the deceased’s family. Several hundred bags of coins and furs from a great gray wolf. The gold was pitiful compared to other donations and many didn’t understand the significance of the wolf hide, putting it along with the other miscellaneous junk.

Egil braced himself outside the cathedral doors, a sudden melancholia gripping his heart. He’d stare upward at the graceful marble statues hanging overhead. With wings outstretched and sword held high, they looked too serene and beautiful for the gloom that staggered him.

“Something wrong?” Simon, the foreign steward asked in a polite tone. Egil had been standing motionless for several moments.

“There was no fanfare such as this here, for my family. My family gave everything for the old crown. When they were hunted and killed like dogs…they were not remembered by the crown. The very same held by that madman who killed them.”

“Sire. This isn’t the time and place for this. You must collect yourself.” Simon insisted. “This is not their day. The Crown Prince’s death has had serious ripples across the entire kingdom and the situation is tense.” The servant feared for his master’s reputation with such outbursts.

“And mine did not? They were not important in the scheme of things?” Egil spat.

“Egil. This is not the way.” Marya again stepped in, standing in front of the boy and towering over him in her plate armor. “You want to go in there and demand justice? With the situation as it is? Do not be foolish. Such recklessness will get you killed in these times. Contain yourself, and preserve for the next battle. There will come a time, young knyaz.” A firm steel gauntlet clasped the lord’s shoulder as Marya straightened him out.

Resentment built up in Egil for a moment, but came to pass. Marya’s words carried too much truth, but he would push his loyal maiden aside.

“I will go in alone. Wait here outside.”

Thinking deeply about the previous exchange and letting the doors close behind him, Egil stepped into the gathered crowd He would blend in wordlessly in the back of the group with no fanfare and a solemn look on his face. Other than some glances, the other lords paid him little mind as they focused on the ceremony. The claimants would give their speeches. Egil noted that Anyamara’s speech was full of passion and bravado, and genuine grief. It made Egil respect her much more, though it was undeniable there was a certain aura of malice in her actions. Something he could only detect since often he felt such malice too. A promising young woman but the tyranny of the mad king was not forgotten, least of all by the knyaz. Egil preferred a weaker king to rule. It would be a good remedy after the previous tyranny and inviting yet another person with Colyt’s blood seemed disastrous no matter what honeyed words she said.

Sharles seemed like the weak king to be. His speech had a tough act to follow up and to say he surpassed his rival would be a lie. Egil would politely offer his applause among the crowd, for political concerns than anything else. His gentle calm tone was reliving from Anyamara’s passion, though his strengths were mostly what he was not instead of any positive accomplishments. In these times perhaps that would be good enough.

After the funeral, Egil would gather up with other Sharles supporters. He’d peer over the stone casket at least once, staring over the beautiful effigy of the fallen prince proudly posed with his sword in hands. His avatar to represent the crown prince for rest of eternity.

There too will be a stone casket for you, some day. As one for your father, as for Daymian, as for you too.

The cold hand of mortality crept over his back. A panic that if he did not accomplish his goals, himself and his ancestors would be doomed to obliteration. Egil quickly turned and faced away from the casket, feeling a strong need for a hard drink. Hopefully discussion with the other lords would ease his mind, but that came with troubles all of its own.

---

At the head of the service stood a solitary figure, clad in battle raiment save for a windswept cloak that clung to his broad shoulders. He looked fit for a painting, his face was set in a grim countenance, a thoughtful light far behind his eyes of grey iron. The king had been mad as a rabid dog, Torm had seen the lack of sanity first hand. But he was still his liege, and with the passing of The Prince as well, it was not difficult to spend minutes regretting the events that led to this occasion. He'd learned how to mourn long ago.

Anyamara and Sharles both gave their eulogies, though Torm didn't really watch to see who gave more regret over the deaths of the royal family. Politics would come later. Though Sharles nervousness didn't escape him. Even now he felt his father's voice at his heels, tugging at his heart whilst his honor counterbalanced the evil thoughts dwelling within.

Behind him he could hear whispers, drawing him out of his reverie. Faint murmurs of what he assumed were upstart malcontents smelling blood in the water, and he turned. Not with his entire body, but he did not hide his wintry gaze. He could win a maiden's heart with a smile, but his glare promised a duel of iron swords. He wasn't so cynical or bullheaded that he thought all manner of stately discussion was made with forked teeth, but there was a time and a place. The service was mercifully concluded shortly after, the dukes and barons howling once again. Garthon the Venerable placed his hand on Torm's shoulder, the old master-at-arms locking gazes for a moment with him before they both smiled.

"How about a drink to warm the bones?" He offered the Wolf, his voice like grinding stone. Nearly seventy winters and he still had the strength of a knight in him. Torm trusted no one more, except maybe his horse. The man had practically raised the Archduke. For his part, Torm placed his hand on the elder's and shook his head, glancing at his lieutenant. Einon the Tall was already eyeing up every lass with long legs and longer lashes in the crowd.

"I need to bandy words with my...peers." Torm said, regret evident. He gestured toward Einon with his head. "Get a drink with that one, and make sure he doesn't go after a woman that could have him hanged."

"No promises," Garthon replied, and he pushed Einon with one meaty hand. "Come on, boy. Don't make me whip ye in front of all the lords n' ladies."

Torm gave a laugh showing his teeth. It showed how young and full of life he was, when the stern facade faded. He wanted to find Sir Jorin Longwall, probably the man he respected the most and knew the best in the entire city. But as it were the man was likely busy with his duties, and so he would instead find another Archduke or Baron he wasn't entirely acquainted with. It would do to engage and see who among the two claimants was more widely favored, and he wanted to see who outside his realm he could potentially trust, no matter the outcome.

The fresh air was a welcome relief, albeit a small one, in the scheme of things. There was still the matter of the stairs one had to traverse in order to leave the Cathedral. At least some thoughtful soul had made them several feet wide during construction, allowing him to descend them one at a time like a toddler learning to walk.

The assembled nobility of Adandion was impressive to say the least and he recognized everyone he laid eyes on from the files he had assembled in the Archives. He might not be able to swing a sword, but his mind was a sharp as it had ever been. It was actually the only thing that didn't regularly cause him pain.

The stairs passed beneath him. Twelve stairs. Twelve clicks]. At least he didn't trip and eat shit, making an even greater fool of himself, if such a thing was possible.

He paused at the bottom and leaned on his cane, enjoying the sunshine streamed down on the group. His guards, both women, and Bartholomew, waited patiently within arms reach should he require assistance. It was both annoying and reassuring all at once.

"M'lord, Duke Torm Draufkrieg of Arbormark is behind you." Bartholomews voice was so quiet that Karl might have missed was he not expecting it.

He turned his head and regretted it immediately as his neck clicked and pain shot through his right eyeball. He forced himself not to react and instead offered a polite nod to the armour plated monolith who was making his way down the stairs. "Big man who will take a lot of killing if it comes to it..."

"My lord Draufkrieg," The man was almost a spitting image of what Karl would have looked like if it were not for the cruel twist of fate. "How are you?"

The two lords shared a mutual border all the way to the Archgates and had, on more than one occasion, supported local nobility in their blood feuds and campaigns against each other. Karl was not foolish enough to think the big man used his head solely for a helmet rack and knew that any failure to communicate could easily end up with them coming to blows. "Not physically of course, that man could snap in two like a tooth pick."

"I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"



@POOHEAD189

---

It seemed fateful or unfortunate the first man who recognized him outside the Cathedral was the wizened and frail Karl Müller-Hohenstein. The man reminded Torm of a serpent, conniving and deceptively slim. He might not be a physical danger, but Torm had heard stories of the man's deviousness, and had known a few of his own knights who were killed in battle with Karl's cavaliers. Karl wasn't a strategist as far as Torm knew, but he could pick men who were, and that showcased just as much cleverness as any.

Stepping down the stairs with an inexorable confidence, Torm gave a nod of acknowledgement to his fellow Archduke's retinue before he stood before Karl himself. The Archduke of Arbormark always gave fighting men their due respect, even for just a moment. Torm now inclined his head to Karl, placing a fist on the Wolf's broad chest. The two Archdukes looked complete opposites in every conceivable way, even in the smallest details such as raiment and posture. Despite their difference in physique, there was no hint of fear in the other Archduke's eyes. He respected that.

"Does me good to see you well," He told Karl, and surprisingly it was the truth. They might be border rivals, but Karl gave him a good challenge in matters of state and battle. It paid to keep him and his men sharp. It was also a good excuse not to pursue his father's regretful ambitions...

"The ride was pleasant enough. The journey always seems too long when you're going to the front, but to the capital? I felt like it was a quaint summer canter. I hope you're not feeling too stiff." He finished with a knowing smile, though every now and then his eyes scanned the crowd behind Karl to make certain he did not miss any of the notables leaving and gossiping. The air was thick with whispers and chatter.

"How long do you plan to stay?" He asked out of genuine curiosity. He half expected a cryptic answer, but he wasn't shy on asking questions regardless.

Featuring @BCTheEntity as Varangyrian, @TheRedWatcher as Mertavodah, and @ShadowSunRisen as Egil, plus assorted NPC dukes and duchesses of the Frostmark and Mistlands

---

The hall was filled with the sounds of dukes and duchesses chatting with one another as Velikynaz Varangyrian Vyapult VII took his position at the table, quieting the discussion down immediately. It was a pleasant enough scene - more or less a dining hall in one of the Mistland’s cities, not quite so bold as his own keep, but sufficient for this purpose nonetheless.

‘Greetings, my fellow Northfolk. I’m sure it’s no surprise to you why we’re here,’ he began, choosing to start proceedings frankly, and with little fanfare. ‘Protection, alliance. Support, most importantly. Ours are not grand regions like the Arbormark or Stormlands, and we are not flush with resources despite our best efforts. Though I and my fellow Knyaz are who lead the Frostmark and Mistlands respectively, the war that looms affects us all, down to the most diligent of layfolk. Best, then, to lay differences aside before the situation grows dire.’

The hall of ancestors from the Engelhardt family was a morbid setting for a meeting, but served its function well. It was a long house of rich wood textures and solemn engraved images to represent them. Most apparent of them was a tall figure stretched up to the ceiling, dwarfing all the others in height. A figure of a bearded man with a sword in one hand and a dove perched on his other, a crown annoyed by a priestly figure. The first convert to the Twin Faiths, and the Saint of the Mistlands.

Egil sat underneath the tall figure, hearing the movement and chatter and focused intently on Vyapult’s words. It was an auspicious day, a day of a proposed grand alliance in the face of war. The setting felt strangely fitting to the young duke.

“I agree wholeheartedly, and your words ring true. We must cooperate so no violence transpires in our realms without our say. Although, I wonder what terms each of you may bring. I know no alliance comes without strings attached.”

Egil stood up from his seat and wished to cut to the chase. With war looming so soon, there wasn’t time to waste in his mind.

All this talk seemed like war talk. Or perhaps that is his interpretation of the Marble People. They talk all gravely and dire. Their what they call politics - seemed in comparison - so bloody. True the Frozen Tears had their territorial dispute though they were often settled through the community and rarely ever ended up so brutal. Though Merta is also aware that this has something to do with the Marble People and their Kings. He never understood the relevance. It’s why he came to understand it in better detail. To better know how to prepare his people and relay the Marble People’s perspective.

Though it was hard to do so, when he spent an unnecessary amount of time having to focus on what they were saying. Why were these places so busy with noise? Varan is easy to understand, he has spoken to him a number of times and it was easy to follow. Egil - is it? It took considerable focus to determine his response.

“My people,” Merta begins, “We do not often deal with things like war. While our people hunt and use the land like a sleeping beast lying in wait. We have traditions against violence. Not that we are - what’s the marble people word ah -pah-si-fist. I do agree that it is necessary that we assure the safety of those who live here. That is something I do understand. If there is to be an alliance, then I need the good faith of both Varan and yourself - though I understand Varan’s position, my people are recognized as people. Not every Marble People sees this. We’re treated like com-mah-dities, is that the word? Accessories to the silver in the mines as if we eek out of stone like ore.”

Varan nodded as Merta spoke, certainly in agreement, even if some dukes made minor complaints on the matter. In a way, the positions of the Archduchies compared to other regions were not too dissimilar from that of the Silver City - though much less extreme regardless of the angle taken, for land potency alone if nothing more.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Duke Mertavodah,’ he proceeded. ‘War is not ideal, even for many of the Archdukes, and for the Duchies of our nations even less so. But, two vying candidates for the position of monarch is something that has instilled tension into Adanion’s people; refusal to choose a quarter will simply mean it is chosen for us. Certainly, there will be no desire on my end to see any Duchy’s people diminished, least of all yours. And,’ he made clear, ‘I will expand on this as a portion of my own terms: that the same courtesy be extended from all, to all, within the context of this treaty. If we are allied, then I believe we must be clear on our allegiances, rather than ranking amongst ourselves by perceived traits.’

Egil would appreciate the two speaking with careful eyes and a blank face that hid his true emotions. Internally his mind was awash with tons of questions and concerns, assessing risks and wondering if this was worth all the trouble. In many ways he felt his hand was forced by circumstance but he yearned to believe there were still individual actions he could do to change the course of history. Something he simultaneously thought was foolishly idealistic and needed in this moment.

“Clarity will be needed not just for the other lords, but ourselves as well. This alliance will combine our levies and we’ll have to divulge any secrets we may have to work best together. This will also mean you may have to risk people and resources for the defense of another realm that’s not your own.”

“We’ll also be attacked for this. Not directly, at least not immediately. The southern duchies will retaliate with tariffs, merchants denied or other services denied. There is no doubt in my mind that when this alliance leaks out, and it will, that we will be targeted. War may become inevitable very quickly, even though no one here wishes for it.”

Egil clears his throat, he looks among the guards posted downstairs and sees Marya among them. A source of strength.

“So I apologize if it seemed this was motivated to take advantage of resources” He would gesture to Merta; “Or to put people at risk.” He’d then gesture to Vyapult. “But there will be a retaliation upon us the second this is agreed upon, and I want to make sure everyone here knows and understands this and is willing to weather the coming storm.”

When he went on this journey he knew that he would be submerged into the politics of the Marble People. He decided to go on this path in order to guarantee his people’s security in the new Marble People future. Because he knows they will continue to expand, he feels the pressure of their power, the pressure of their expansion and the worry of their leaders. His people feel like they are simply attached like a tumor. That one day, someone will cut them off. He also worries about accepting and becoming more involved in the Marble People’s politics. The Echoes in his past have dealt with the Marble People by keeping themselves isolated, and distant. That will not protect them in the end. But Merta wonders if this is the right path. When will this alliance falter, as they all do? Because the Marble People’s words are often like the tides. First they bring bounty, then they retreat. Perhaps it is distrust, but then again the people he has seen haven’t shown themselves to be trustworthy. He tries not to generalize. Yet. He is uncertain.

What do the spirits say? What does the Mountain Father and Mother say, what does the Forest Father say? Is this protection? Is this security? Is the path that he has begun to walk is the right way? As an Echo he is a guide to his people.

“My worry is not about the resources, things are things, the Marble People seem obsessed with land and power, they do not seem to see people as people, my concern is that my people are and will be seen as accessories or objects in the end. We have no long lasting power in your court, we’re an aside, an attachment. An attachment. What my concern is that again,” Merta pauses, “And I mean this not in disrespect to Varan.” he nods politely towards him, “Is that my people will not be seen as separate entities. Currently we are in a position of vassal to House Vyapult. We’re in an awkward position making alliances. People will see this as a grab of power on my part. Though I admit honestly and selfishly, with full trust that I wish my people were not seen as merely eyesores. This is the position I am placed in when making these decisions. It’s not just war that is at sake. Or who brandishes their sword. But I am thinking of the long term consequences. I want no part in your power. My people want no part in the Marble People’s Kingdom. But the more they expand. The more their power exerts pressure. I wonder what our role is in it. If you understand these things, then I will accept what you have to say.”

‘Of course.’ Of course he understood; he’d been involved with Merta and the People of the Silver City for who knew how many years now. He recognised their plight - and he knew he wasn’t one to talk, he was an archduke in quite a stable position, especially with the Mad King’s demise. But damn it all. ‘I reiterate my insistence. All must see each other as equal - as people, no matter the culture. Rest assured, I will personally speak with those who refuse these terms…

‘And on that note,’ he continued firmly, ‘we must as well make a decision on who we support collectively. In this, I am perhaps foolish to propose that the choice be allowed at all; but, I allow it in understanding that we all gain more from Sharles’ reign than Anyamara’s, and that all recognise this idea. Anyamara’s supporters, in many ways, feel impelled to do so by the money they are offered. Rest assured, if we are truly seen as lesser for our limited export, then she will not provide equivalent due for our support as to the richer regions of the South, and in the meantime will only lessen the standing of the common people all over, those who cannot afford the lessening, least of all in the Frostmark and Mistlands. Under Sharles, I dare say we shall all be brought upward - and, to be sure, it will be those who have most to lose under the Bastard Maiden who will have most to gain under the alternative.’

Egil again retreated into himself to process Merta’s speech. It was a new perspective that he did not immediately understand. He’d think back on the strange feather he was offered as a gift, one that appeared important to the Echo but to himself had no value. A collective alliance would be complicated in many more ways than originally thought.

“For all intents and purposes, Lord Merta. In this alliance we are one people by just how our soon to emerge enemies shall perceive us. Although this process won’t be painless or without misunderstanding, if you allow patience I think it will protect us all from the ‘marble kingdoms’ as you call them. Although I share a lot of their traditions, the people of the Illemani river are still yet their own and there was a proud culture and religion here before any southerner set foot in these woods. As Vyapult has noted too, our support of Sharles will bind us together through the ugliness of politics. Another Mad King is something I simply cannot tolerate.”

“I hope that is convincing to you both that you will not be taken advantage of or seen as lowly pieces on a chess board. There will be a need for much sympathy between us here, but I am confident we will come out stronger on the other side. Our first step should be the security of the border and to deny any army professing loyalty to Anyamara passage through our lands. The people will come first, that I can easily agree to and their security will be seen to.”

It had not been a question whether Merta supported Sharles or Anyamara. The question was more or less him stepping forth in this world or not and beginning to make plays on a chessboard, “I only saw one option in your politics, which is Sharles. So the three of us are in agreement there.”

‘Our borders can be secured readily if need be,’ Varan cited. ‘A region loyal to Anyamara will likely make themselves known one way or another; until they do, we can retain our trade routes with them, and benefit for as long as possible.

‘But what say the rest of you?’ Varangyrian asked the other assorted nobles. ‘All in favour of Sharles as King, raise your hand and call “aye”.’ A chorus of “aye!”s rang out; though some resolutely kept their hands down and their mouths shut, there was a clear majority in favour.

‘Then it’s agreed,’ he concluded. ‘Unless or until extreme circumstances deem it necessary to state otherwise, the duchies of the Northern Treaty recognise Sharles of Bremerant as the rightful heir to the throne.’ A small chorus of cheers followed after this. And he wouldn’t admit here that it’d be so in word more so than thought for him, not until the man had proven his worth.

Although more details needed to be ironed out, for the moment the alliance was set in place. Joining in with the other lords, Egil threw his support behind Sharles as well.

“So it is decided. We’ll work out more later, but for now this alliance will be for Sharles as the rightful heir to the throne.”

A storm had gathered over the Gravenburg. Banners bearing the crimson fist of House van Rossum fluttered in the wind while men were scurrying around the fortress grounds, trying to keep as sheltered from the rain as possible while performing their daily tasks. In a dark room, only lit by a single fireplace save for the intermittent lightning flashes sat an imposing figure. Elise van Rossum, Hertogin of the Duchy of Gelderecht, sat in her study, staring intently into the fireplace. The three empty bottles of Arbormark wine on the ground next to her betrayed that she’d been here for a while already.

The death of the Master Minister had led to a crisis in Elise’s duchy, and the Crownmark as a whole. With the death of both King Cloyt II and Viscount Holdorf a power vacuum had appeared which pushed the Crownmark on the brink of disaster. Already she had to send some of her Irons into the countryside to ensure panic wouldn’t get a grip on the population. Gods forbid she had to deal with another revolt right now. But even though this was already enough reason to cause a headache, it wasn’t the most ominous event concerning the Hertogin.

News of a Northern Alliance had reached Elise’s ears mere hours ago. There had been rumors from a handful of northern traders at first, but as the number of traders repeating the rumors kept increasing, it was safe to assume there was truth in them. The mayor of Anthagen had already come to her directly to voice his concern about the potential loss of income for his city, and himself of course. “Greedy bastard,” Elise grumbled to herself, “I should have gotten rid of that snake during the Uprising.”

This Northern Alliance could prove a far bigger problem than just a nuisance concerning trade income. It is said that they side with the pretender Sharles of Bremerant. Elise remembers the impression she held of him at the royal funeral; a meek boy who would be torn apart by Adanion’s political elite. He might have some claim by family and he had been friends with the Crown Prince, whom Elise had respected greatly, but in her mind Sharles wasn’t able to hold a candle to either Cloyt II or Daymian. No, Elise far more preferred the alternative.

Anyarama “the Bastard Maiden” was Elise’s prefered candidate, though she hadn’t stated this openly yet. Anyarama obviously has the noble blood of Cloyt II running through her veins as she has inherited his conviction and sense of righteousness. With the Realm on the brink of chaos and with a malicious force in the shadows, it is clear that a firm hand needs to bring order to Adanion. And Anyarama shows the potential to be able to do just that.

The formation of the Northern Alliance was worrying, and thus something had to be done about the Crownmark’s current situation. The Crownmark should not be allowed to fracture with a civil war looming on the horizon. Its wealth would be a tantalizing prize to any would-be pretender and its central location almost assured that armies from both parties would march on its rich soil. A unified Crownmark, on the other hand, would be a formidable force to be reckoned with. This is why Elise has been subtly probing the different lords in the Mark on what their opinions would be if they elected a Lord Protector of the Crownmark. It would be a temporary office, only there to weather the coming storm of civil war, but it would assure the Crownmark’s continued cohesion. Potential candidates for this role would either be dukes of the Crownmark or Sir Jorin Redside, Captain of the Crownguard.

A knock could be heard before the door opened. A one eyed man clad in black armor entered Elise’s study. “Siegmund,” Elise said while nodding, “are all preparations ready?” Siegmund was the commander of the Black Iron Regiment, the elite of the elite, and Elise’s second in command. He beat his fist on his chest and bowed his head before replying. “Yes my Lady Hertogin, forty Black Riders are waiting in the courtyard to be your escort.” There was some hesitation before he continued. “Are you sure you won’t need me by your side, my Lady Hertogin?” Elise chuckled as she rose from her chair. Dwarfing Siegmund, she put a hand on his shoulder and said “I need you to take care of the Gravenburg while I’m gone, my friend. You needn’t worry, I promise my return will be swift.” With that said, she left her study and made her way to the courtyard.

Walking into the courtyard, Elise could see her forty Black Riders all present, just as Siegmund said they would be. They had clearly been waiting here for a while, as they were soaked by the rain. A chorus of “Hail Hertogin” greeted her as they saluted her with a fist pound on the chest, a salute she returned. Mounting her horse Zege, a destier as black as tar, Elise gave a final nod to Siegmund before riding out.

An auspicious omen appeared as Elise went through the main gate. For the sun was breaking through the storm clouds, and Elise’s face was basked in its warm embrace. Hopefully we’ll keep this luck with the weather all the way, she thought to herself. There was much to discuss with friends and potential allies. Normally on occasions such as this she’d travel by carriage, but the Northern Alliance’s formation demanded expediency. Her first visit would be to the region on which Gelderecht’s economy relied the most, and to the man Elise considered to be amongst the most dangerous in all of the realm:

The Archduke of the Stormland. Karl Müller-Hohenstein.

Karl had not lingered long in the Capital. His position as Royal Archivist was, in theory, still valid but he had no doubt that he was far safer in the lands of his own people than in the serpents nest. He still maintained his connections, and the vast spy network that he had built under the former King still fed him continuous information. The Northern Alliance was no surprise to him when it was announced, he had ravens bearing the news come pouring in while the ink was still dry on the parchment.

"Bold to declare for the would be usurper..." He was in the Northern most city of Rhon in a tower that he had built for his own enjoyment, a single lonely spire connected to the main fortress by a long stone bridge. It was an incredible feat of engineering and one that served to highlight the skill of Stormlanders.

"Still it only makes sense. Their strength is in unity. It would be unthinkable for them to try and march on the south, but at least this way they prove themselves a force that needs watching."

As with most spaces in which he spent his time, the presence of other humans was limited here. The bridge was well guarded and the climb to the tower itself impossible; several would be assassins had fallen to their deaths before in an attempt to reach him.

Tap. The sound echoed through a single room that made up the mid-layer of the tower. Tall white columns supported the space and there was nary a stair to be seen. The whole spire had been built with ramps or ingenious lifts that allowed him to move about with something approaching comfort.

Click. He was quite alone here with his musings. The only sound other than his laboured breathing was a small waterfall that burbled down one wall, fed by pipes that had been built into the connecting bridge.

Drag. Couches and desks filled some of the space but it was in the very centre of the room that the true mastery of the spire could be found. A bath. It was deep enough he could sit and had a shelf in which he could lie down. Tile, made by unknown men from across the Starry Sea, was laid throughout and no matter how grumpy he was, it always served to cheer him up.

Similar such structures had been built in all the major cities he could be expected to spend his time in. Michaela was left to visit the rest. She was the sword to his shield and between the two of them the Stormlands had become second to none in the realm.

Tap. Click. Click.

"Fuck!" He squawked as his ankle chose that moment to give out and he toppled sideways with a crash, his cane rolling across the floor. He landed on his hip and fire shot through his lower back and then his shoulder hit; more fire. Small mercies allowed his head to go un-bonked but it jarred his neck nonetheless.

"Never a dull fucking moment around here." He wanted to kick something like petulant child but he hurt too much at the moment and settled for slapping the floor with one hand. It hurt, but only slightly. "The grace of the Archduke is legendary..." He mocked himself as he dragged his body into to a sitting position.

He was aware instantly of the sound of feet on the ramp and quickly finished dragging himself to his feet on the corner of a desk. No matter how much it hurt, he would not be found lying on the floor like a child.

Bartholomew appeared at the head of the ramp, took in the scene with a quick glance, and approached.

"My lord, Elise van Rossum is riding for the city," He knelt and picked up the cane, leaning it next to Karl. "I can only imagine she wishes to speak with you."

"Got an army behind her has she?" Karl was only half joking. The woman was not unlike his daughter, an iron fist that somehow jammed itself into a corset one minute and plate mail the next. Bartholomew smiled slightly but did not reply.

"Have a man find out what she wants. If it's me she seeks, send her along. No guards mind you, though I'll take a half dozen. That lady could kill me without flexing a muscle. If she's looking for the Duchess, send her along to Steinbach."

Bartholomew nodded and retreated without another word. Karl worked his way around to the other side of the desk and sat in the heavily cushioned chair. His ass was still throbbing from hitting the floor and sitting never did his body any favours. Still, he had to think and this was so much better than standing.

Leaning back as best he could he closed his eyes and dug deep into his memory. He might not be able to wield a sword anymore but his memory was nearly perfect and it proved to be his most dangerous weapon.

"Hertogin Elise van Rossum..." He muttered through missing teeth and chapped lips. "A damn fine commander in a world full of preening cocks in armour... Popular with her soldiers, no such much the common folk. Nothing wrong with a bit of fear but with the religious contagion spreading among the peasantry the heavy handed approach might not do so well..."

"Likes her liquor... Not quite certain on her sexual activities yet, she's kept that one surprisingly under wraps... Not a merchant but she keeps the rabble at bay so trade can thrive; she's what carries our peace beyond our border and into the north..."

"Desperate for recognition, no secret there." His eyes opened again. He often talked to himself and he glanced at the folded note on the desktop. The northern alliance. He was not foolish enough to dismiss them out of hand, they were fierce warriors but even united they were not a force that needed to be reckoned with, unless they combined with another larger organized army. They could be safely discounted for the present moment; spies would quickly inform him of any major movements.

"Yes, let us see what the Lady Van Rossum wants..."



@Zoldyck

Within the Mariettan Palace it is another day of decadence and disarray. Within this masquerade resides Filiberta-Marie, wearing a pale red dress with a black moretta mask. Attached to the mask are flowers of gold and pink, and her hair is braided black into a fishtail. Flowers were also placed within her hair and along her large fur collar, matching the colors of the flowers on the mask.

She danced with one of the many counts within her duchy who had been invited to this masquerade, his name seemed to evade her memory. Harsh music from a hurdy gurdy and a harpsichord played in the background. Servants walked about with plates of alcohol and food, and some were carrying in tables into the ballroom to be used for the feast. As she danced with the count he finally spoke, "your highness, you are quite the marvelous dancer, I must ask how no gentleman has sought to win your favor yet."

She chuckled behind her mask at the comment before she responded, "many have, my dear count," she then stomped upon his foot. He let out a sharp howl and let go of her, backing away as he hopped on one foot, "but men like you are neither tasteful dancers or romancers." She walked away from the dance floor then to watch as her servants brought in the tables and chairs for her company. There upon her throne she watched this all, while also keeping an eye upon the ballroom floor. She paid special attention to the count she had spurned, watching as he tried unsuccessfully to dance with another noblewoman, his steps on his left foot seemed to be pained and out of sync. Filiberta-Marie laughed to herself at the sight, her mask hiding it all.

Soon the guests gathered around the three tables, taking seats. The three tables formed the shape of a u, and at the center of the center table was Filiberta, who kept her mask on while the nobles feasted. Before them were various forms of venison and duck, along with locally harvested vegetables that Filiberta had acquired from the peasantry. The nobles feasted like hogs as Filiberta again watched, only occasionally lifting her mask to drink from the goblet of wine in front of her.

She interrupted the conversations half-way through the meal to raise her glass and speak to all. "My dearest vassals, I hope you have all enjoyed the decadences of this evening! And now I ask that we take a moment to remember why we are gathered here, to celebrate the lives of those above myself who have passed." A mumbling of agreement was heard throughout the crowd, and she spoke again, "and to help us through these trying times, I do invite you to watch a performance by our court jester, would dearest shar... I mean Charles," the crowd laughed at the purposeful stutter, "please come in." Through the doors of the ballroom a man wearing a harlequin mask with a fake crown entered, and he was covered in rags and rusted squire armor. The man was of a thin and unimpressive frame, and his voice was squeaker and idiotic. He began to perform a comedic monologue on his dearest friend the king and how he had come upon the king’s crown.

Filiberta watched the monologue she had written with glee and smiled at the thought of the uncivilized squire she had met just days before. She was still surprised that she had gotten the armor just rusty enough to fit the aesthetic! As the crowd laughed Filiberta-Marie suddenly felt the tap of a handmaiden on her shoulder, who then leaned in and whispered in her ear. Filiberta continued to hide her emotion behind her mask, and she turned to the handmaiden, "so the Northerners want to play the jesters in our tale then? I could not have hoped for better entertainment this evening." She stood up now and walked away from the table with the handmaiden, "I must prepare a letter for the old man immediately! Please bring a raven ... no, I think a crow would be better, please send a crow to my study." The handmaiden accepted the task as Filiberta made her way to her study.

She entered the dark and dusty room, old tomes and tapestries that were slowly deteriorating lined the walls along with a shield holding her family's crest. She smiled in the old room as she took a seat at the old wooden desk. She took out a piece of parchment and a quill with ink. She gazed out the window in the study for a moment, the lake far below glistening in the moonlight. She then took a lit candle upon the windowsill and used it to light the incense beside it. With the atmosphere now set she took to writing her letter to Karl Müller-Hohenstein.

"My dearest liege,

I hope that your body does not ail you today, and may your health remain reasonable at the least! I also hope that you enjoyed the festivities in the capital as I did. It is strange to say the least that a man of such low class of Sharles could dare to stand before the great nobility of this country as he did and speak in such an insulting manner! Despite this bold display, there are those within our country that are willing to support this madman.

Of course, there are those who also support Anyamara, a somewhat more noble heiress, one who is less likely to incite the peasantry. No matter what position you have on this issue I must tell you this, I am in full support of your will for this archduchy. Although I have had some disagreements with your policies in the past, I cannot deny that you have been nothing but an effective ruler of this land, and that your will has done good in keeping those below you in line. And it is with this limited degree of respect that I ask you to choose wisely whom you support, and if you are to support someone at all. After all, you of all people must know that as an archduke in a time of crisis you have much to lose.

Seeing as your decisions in this time will greatly affect my fate as well as yours, I propose we have a meeting with some other likeminded fellows at some point soon, perhaps a ball at my manner should you want a less imposing space than your personal domain, it will at least make our guests feel less worried about espionage. It would be imperative for such a meeting that it remains somewhat more secretive, and perhaps it may be important to ensure that no Northerners get too involved. There is much work to be done in this time, Karl, and I expect that you will need many allies such as myself, and you can help many with what they desire as well, my dear royal librarian.

Also, please send Michaela my regards.

In adoration,
Filiberta-Marie"

She smiled as she wrote "in adoration," and this whole letter had been an excercize of irony to a certain degree. She did not like the old man, but he could prove useful. It was then that the proper crow was brought into her study and inspecting it the specimen seemed perfect for the letter. She left it in the hands of her servants, and so Filiberta-Marie returned to her masquerade and watched the end of the jester's routine. At the same time, the letter was sent out, and the crow danced through the night on his way to Karl Müller-Hohenstein.

---

Even to one such as Torm, overnight the rumors of fell acts and dreaded deeds began to spread. The lies of Anyamara or the cowardice of Sharles, both being hailed as the end of peace in the land as we knew it. Politics be damned, Torm was still on edge! Though whether it was worry or pent up excitement in his breast, he didn’t know. The Archduke, rugged as the mountains he guarded, was honor bound to protect his home, his people, his King or Queen. Not for the first time did he feel anxious over the implications of this struggle, were he to become Grandmarshall.

He shook the thoughts away with a will. First thing was first, he was looking for Garthon and Einon. The two having left early in the morning whilst Torm ate his fill to scope out the palace and find Sir Jorin Longwall, but they had yet to return after an hour. Torm was never one to wait and see unless he had to, so he decided to stretch his legs. The Wolf of Arbormark now strode the halls, his wintry gaze cast on any that paid heed to him.

The Duchess of Steinland walked briskly through the halls, the heels of her riding boots hitting the ground with fierce determination. Her mare was due to be in estrus any day now and she was determined to not have her prized horse mounted by just any average stallion in the palace stables. As she moved, her hands worked to pull her hair back in a high ponytail using a metal clasp to hold her strands securely in place. She dressed plainly as horses were dirty work and had no desire to ruin the nicer clothing she brought to idle about the palace. A loose fitting white half-sleeved blouse served as her top and more fitted brown trousers that were tucked into black boots served as the rest of her ensemble.

Turning the corner in full stride, she nearly crashed into the broad chested Wolf of Arbormark. “Oh!!” Michaela exclaimed, completely caught off guard and slightly embarrassed with the situation she found herself in.

She was the last person Torm expected to ever see, much less nearly bowl over. Her face almost smooshed into his darkened blue vest, sending his normally stoic expression into boyish concern for a brief, surprising moment. It took him a moment to recognize the pretty woman, and he blinked in surprise. Not only did she pop up out of nowhere, nor was it merely him wondering the chivalric protocol… but he knew her.

“My apologies, I’m sorry I…” He started, almost touching her to make sure she was alright, but quickly pulling back, squaring his broad shoulders. “Hold on, you wouldn’t happen to be Michaela of Steinland, would you?”

“Yes, I am and I should be the one apologizing as I should have been more mindful of where I was going.” She spoke quickly, still somewhat flustered. The man was familiar to her and she was racking her brain to remember who he was until her eyes landed on the crest on his vest. She rebuilt herself enough to provide the ArchDuke with a proper lady’s curtsy. “Lord Draufkrieg. Please accept my humblest apologies for my rude behavior.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his dark mane. “No, you are quite fine, Lady Hohenstein. Er, I mean it’s quite alright.” He remarked, then cleared his throat and gave a bow. “It does me well to see you. I spoke to Karl just the other day, but he didn’t mention you were in the capitol. It’s been a long time.” To speed past the awkwardness and to catch up, he held out an arm. “You don’t seem to be heading for court. Let us apologize together and let me escort you to wherever you’re going. I’ve lost my retainers and I’m sure they’ll show up somewhere. What keeps you at the capital?”

“Given my father’s condition, it was best for him to return home and so it is my responsibility to represent our house while all the nobles are gathered in the capital, my lord.” Her composure rebuilt, she took the archduke’s arm with confidence and grace. The quicker she reached the stables, the happier she would be and it wouldn’t hurt the duchess to take him up on his offer. “I was heading to the stables before returning to court as my mare will go into heat soon and I was afraid of her being sent to pasture with unworthy stallions.”

Even out of a resplendent gown, she carried herself well, Torm noted. For his part, he expected Einon to be the one escorting a woman across the estates of the capital, but he could think of worse ways to spend a day. The wind was warm but refreshing to the touch.

“Well, my realm has excellent horseflesh, you no doubt know.” He said, since she lived on the bordering province. “If you’d care to, you could examine a few of the stallions in my stables? I had a few brought once I was summoned. You never know if the new monarch expects a gift or offering, so I came prepared.” He glanced her way, her flowing ponytail pressing to his face when she turned to look about. He decided not to say anything and blinked it away. He knew she might be politically minded when he offered, so he added: “Don’t feel pressured. Some people want to use stocks they trust. No dishonor in that.”

“I would be honored to be able to examine your stock, Lord Draufkreig. Arbormark’s horses are highly praised and I have been looking for a suitable male for my Aria for a while now as she is only getting older.” Michaela was surprised he thought a new monarch would have been appointed so quickly in a nation so divided, but she hid her thoughts behind a pleasant smile. She wasn’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth.

Marbled hallways gave way to luscious green grass as they passed under ornate archways to make their way to the stables. From their position atop the hill, she could see some of the herd that had been turned out to graze in the tall grass but none were of the of a beautiful golden champagne color that was her horse. The young noblewoman was starting to hope that her horse was still in her stall.

The two of them marveled at the majestic herd running like the wind for a brief moment before they began their way down the slope. He didn’t imagine she would trip, but he made sure to keep steady regardless. Men and women gave them a wide berth, averting their eyes to keep the attention of the duke and duchess off of them. Their ire could see them dead, regardless of whether or not Torm or Michaela would wish it so. Even still, whispers began speaking of the warrior and the maiden walking together.

The sun made Torm’s eyes look wrought of silvered iron, glinting like polished metal when he spotted the stables. “My horses should be just in here, my Lady.” He assured her, stepping in out of the sun and into the stables, the familiar scent of horse and hay wafting against his senses. The smell brought back memories of battles and hard ridden journeys across the land. It was nostalgic.

“Now let’s look for your Aria…” he whispered, but even as he spoke the words he saw his stallions. Muscled and hale like their master, they whinnied and held their heads high, stomping when they saw him until he reached and let them smell his hand, calming them with a soothing stroke of their snouts. All but one, however. Bucephelos was busy, nuzzling a mare at the far corner of the stable.

Sliding off of his arm, Michaela walked purposely down the line of stalls, each bay occupied by proud and curious horses. At first glance, they were beautiful. Sporting bright shiny coats giving proof of a high quality balanced diet and well defined musculature. Each horse appeared to be of top physical shape, but she couldn’t bring herself to admire them just yet. Towards the end of the row, she saw a familiar white striped face.

“Thank goodness… “ she sighed as she approached her beloved mare. The horse pressed itself against the stable door to greet her, blanketing the duchess with it’s long ivory mane as it’s pink lips nipped at her blouse playfully. Michaela ran her slender hands along the mare’s neck in return. “Have you been making friends with the boy next door?” She asked the horse, momentarily forgetting her company as the horse blew forcefully out of it’s nostrils in response.

Michaela reached for the door latch and granted herself entry to the stall. From inside she could see her horse was still fairly clean, it’s white stockings barely showing any dirt. There was a singular pile of feces tucked away neatly in the corner, typical Aria, and a fairly recent pool of urine underneath her horse. The mare was holding her tail up and upon further inspection, the maiden confirmed her horse was in heat.

Torm headed into his Stallion’s pen, smiling knowingly at Bucephelos as he calmed the beast down, keeping him from moving about with his strong arm. “Found something you like?” He whispered, the horse lifting its head and lowering it as if in nod. Torm gave a laugh, knowing how Bucephelos was like when he found something he wanted. Torm had helped birth the horse when he was but a boy. “Women have that effect on men.” Torm confessed to his Destrier. “But you can’t be too eager. Play it cool.”

It was…easy to tell Bucephelos was ready to mate. Torm just had to give a glance, below. He decided to distract him for a moment, taking out a green apple from his knapsack. He’d been planning on visiting later on in the day, but it didn’t hurt to give them some treats now for being patient. He just hoped this one was patient in other areas, now.
“Well, it appears they like each other.” He said in mock surprise, glancing over his shoulder towards Michaela. “If the lady wills, I think they might be a good match. With your leave, of course.”

Passing through the stall door once more, the noblewoman rinsed her hands in a nearby bucket and dried them with the towel that hung from a shared ring, leaving her horse to occupy itself with hay. Returning to the archduke, Michaela planted herself perpendicular to the horse and held out a passive hand for the stallion to take in her cent. Locking her grey blue eyes with the Wolf lord, she was all business in that moment. “May I inspect him?”

He raised his brow and looked her way, nodding in agreement. “As the lady will,” he said with a small lowering of his head. He let Bucephelos go, whispering for him to behave before he gingerly let go of the Stallion and walked out of the gate, opening it up for her to enter. Once she did, he would wait outside of it so as not to confuse his Stallion. He had no doubt she knew her horseflesh, which made him felt at ease. Bucephelos was one of his best.

Now that she wasn’t brimming with anxiety over her own horse, Michaela was able to truly admire an Arbormark stallion. The horse seemed to be interested in her as much as she was interested in him as he pressed his nose into her bosom, taking huge wiffs of her scent into his nasal passages. She could hear how strong and even his breathing was, a tell-tale sign of strong lungs. A respectable runner. She reached up to scratch his jawline, noting that his coat felt as beautifully soft as it looked and how his muscles danced underneath his skin. She then moved around the horse, checking his ears, hooves, and finally his teeth. He was free of any mites, hoof rot, and poor dental hygiene. A definitive sign that he was cared for which made her smile.

“He is very handsome, Lord Draufkreig. Was he fairly easy to train? What would their mating cost me?” As Michaela asked her questions, Bucephelos began lipping at her blouse like Aria had done not too long ago. A pale slender hand reached up on its own to scratch the playful horse underneath his chin.

Torm rested his arms on top of the gate, his chin atop them as he watched the duchess and Bucephelos interact, hoping nothing went awry. Thankfully, she seemed to handle him as well as he could, the horse even warming up to her. He gave a sniff in amusement, figuring his Destrier knew he needed to behave to mount the mare just over the fence.

“No, this one was as stubborn as me.” Torm admitted, remembering all the times his father compared them to one another. “Back when I trained him, he nearly broke my leg at one point. But he learned to behave, like I did. Now he’s tame, but he has an attitude. As for payment, my lady…”

He lifted himself to his full height, opening the gate to better speak. “I give him to you as a gift, for the betterment of our two houses.” Torm declared, pausing to let the proclamation sink in. “Were it Karl and I, I probably wouldn’t be so readily generous. But from what I’ve heard, you have a stout heart.” He smiled, something he found himself doing around her. Normally he was known as a stern, if not grim man. But right now, he felt like the youth he still was. “And if you enjoy him, perhaps we could come to an agreement on trade? If it would please you, my lady.”

She grinned knowingly as the lord spoke of his horse, knowing full well how much a handful it could be to break in a young horse. As for his offer, a gift of a thoroughbred horse was truly not something she was expecting. Such things are not typically given freely and she was wary of it, given whom she called father. A serious expression formed on the young woman’s face as she mulled over his words, but it sooner softened into a genuine smile. Michaela was willing to take the chance on accepting his offer and perhaps she could pay him back in other ways should his intentions hold true. “I think I would enjoy him very much, my lord. Perhaps we can leave these two to their own devices in one of the smaller fields so we can discuss these trade agreements you have in mind? I think leaving them to bond over a week’s time should guarantee a fruitful outcome.”

Patting Bucephelos for one last time, Michaela truly examined the man in front of her. The last time she saw the wolf lord, they were just children. Hardly aware of the roles they were destined to fill. Now they were full adults and she wondered what kind of man he truly was. What road did they find themselves walking on?

---

It was a mere hour later when the two found themselves in an antechamber connected to the Great Hall, where members of court could eat and meet without using the main chamber itself. Even so, retainers and courtiers found their way into the room before Torm closed the door fully, locking so he and the duchess could speak business, with the only entrance into the room connected to the kitchen. Curious eyed maids in aprons carried forth chicken, beef, bread, mead, water, and even pudding for the two to enjoy, compliments of the council’s staff.

“We’ll wait for you out here. Knock her dead,” Einon had teased Torm, before Garthon grabbed him and veritably pulled him out the door.

He had shaken his head, but when he looked at her, he couldn’t help but feel a bit humbled by her beauty. He smirked at his own foolishness, and pulled her chair out so that she may sit, before taking his seat as well. Their drinks poured and their food steaming, they could finally speak.

Michaela thanked him as she gathered up the skirt of her dress to sit in one practiced fluid motion. After they had departed the stables, satisfied that the two horses frolicked playfully together in their private field, the pair split ways momentarily to wash up and for the noblewoman to change into clothes more acceptable to her station. The cotton dress she wore was soft to the touch and a rich azure color. It was fitted perfectly to her frame, with sleeves that extended down to her wrists and a respectfully positioned neckline that stopped just above the mounds of her chest. Throughout the dress were delicately embroidered silver flowers that helped to elevate the piece to be acceptable for a lunch with another nobleman. Ilse had helped her pick the dress out from the selection they had brought with them and brushed out the duchess’ hair as Michaela recounted to the other woman the events that lead up to that moment. The handmaiden plaited the strands along her crown to form a halo around her skull while the rest of her hair fell in waves that trailed past her shoulders and gave her some parting advice before sending her out the chamber doors.

“My lady, remember you are also a woman, not just the Dutchess. Try to enjoy this lunch outside all of the politics?” Ilse had truly spoken from a place of love for the higher ranking noblewoman and Michaela knew it. With no other siblings, it came down to her to continue the family lineage and she was still unwed. It was a stressor that all nobles knew and it’s something that did weigh heavily on her mind. However, the handmaiden was speaking for her lady’s well-being , not duty.

Pushing the memory of their conversation to the back of her mind, Michaela marveled at the bounty before them as she grabbed the napkin from her plate and gently unfolded it onto her lap.

“The last time we ate together, we were just children.” The young woman commented, working to put into practice what the Ilse suggested.

“I remember it, at least to a point.” He reminisced, not quite recalling what the meeting was for. Thinking back on it now, no wonder his father yelled so much at him at the time. He could remember Michaela quite well, stunned at how the little imp of a girl had now bloomed into a very attractive young woman. “Our fathers had to settle some business, but there was a big feast and we started running around. I think I tripped you up and you fell off a chair you were trying to jump off of.”

He grabbed a chicken leg, trying to eat it as delicately as he could in pleasant company. Torm was not without manners, but he kept them hidden until they were needed, much like a sword. Only he polished his sword far more. “I was always wondering when you’d get me back for that, but we never got to see one another until now. I hope the horse is repayment enough.” He joked, covering his mouth with his offhand. The meat was succulent and spiced. The capital had good food, if nothing else.

Using her fork, Michaela plucked cubes of beef and piled them atop her plate as Torm spoke of their shared childhood memory. She remembered that day fairly well as that fall ended with her in tears and some nasty bruises. Her grandmother had been the one to calm her back down by rocking her back and forth in her lap. Given her father’s condition and the early death of her mother, Michaela’s grandparents had been the ones tasked with her upbringing. The young noblewomen smiled as she spoke. “He is a very fine horse, I will admit, but I think I would prefer you live in fear of when I can extract my revenge. That sounds a lot more fun.”

After having cut the cubes in half, the young woman delicately plopped a chunk of the delicately spiced meat into her mouth. Proper court etiquette was practically beaten into her being, so every motion was executed with fluid, practiced ease and she made sure to swallow her bite before speaking again. “This is actually quite good!” Michaela exclaimed, genuinely surprised. There was a talented cook in the palace kitchens, thank the gods.

“It is,” he complimented, hoping one of the cooks could hear. Torm tended not to raise his voice unless it was to soldiers or in war. Generally his rugged baritone was enough to be heard across a wide expanse of space, anyway. “My cooks make great venison, but there’s a spice here I’m quite interested in asking about.” He remarked honestly, but shrugged. His wintry eyes glanced her way, and he gave a small smile. “Well, we’ll find out. If I find it, maybe you can come to Arnkastell soon and we can enjoy it there. It’ll give you a chance to exact some revenge. Assassination is harder to commit at the capital, I hear.”

He drank a good swig of his mug, washing down the food and wiping the liquid from his lips with his napkin along his robust thumb. “I only have some of the finest knights in the world. They’d be no match for the Duchess of Steinland.”

“They really wouldn’t.” She agreed before taking a sip of water to wet her pallet, the cool liquid felt refreshing after the warm spiced beef. “Though I think assassination is a bit extreme for a child’s mistake. I will find a punishment more appropriate for the crime, do not worry.” Taking a bowl within her pale slender hand, she started to serve herself some of the pudding that had been brought out for the pair to enjoy. While she did enjoy their playful conversation, it was time for her to get to the root of why they were sharing a meal. Setting her bowl back down without a hint of sound, Michaela grabbed her silver spoon to sample her first mouthful. The dish was delightfully smooth and just the right level of sweetness. “While I am grateful for your gift, it would be such a long trip for only the promise of a good meal. Tell me my lord, what trade are you hoping to facilitate between Arbormark and the Storm Lands?”

Whether it was gracious table manners or not, Torm developed a pensive pose, one he often did when speaking to his generals. His fingers intertwined, elbows resting on the table, and his sharp eyes on exactly whom he was speaking to. “I am hoping to provide security to my people,” He stated flatly. “Arbormark is not wanting in its coffers, but there’s going to be much instability soon, unless some miracle were to occur. I want to offer a ready supply of horses to the Storm Lands in exchange for a fair price to my merchants. There are already smaller deals being made between our peoples, so I would like to form up and sign and agreement that makes it official when it comes to horseflesh. Does that sound reasonable?”

Michaela was intrigued by how seamlessly the archduke changed gears, moving from boyish charm to commanding noble right before her eyes. There are indeed two sides to every coin. As he changed his posture to perch himself forward, she actually relaxed into the back of her chair and fully crossed her left leg over her right. Her hands rested against her stomach with her fingers laced and thumbs moving in a circular pattern around each other as she thought. Her eyes matched his intensity. “How much coin per horse? How many horses per shipment? How frequent will these shipments be? It is at least 2-3 years before a horse can be trained to ride so what is the long term plan should we find ourselves in an extensive conflict? What if we find ourselves on opposite sides of the inevitable conflict between the two prospects for the crown? Will you still want to sell me horses?” The duchess bombarded the archduke with the more important questions that had come to mind. She was not above paying good coin for quality horses for her people, but she shared the same concerns as Torm. A storm was on the horizon and she had to prepare her people as best she could.

Torm raised an eyebrow. She certainly came prepared to speak business. Perhaps he should be wary of her. Instead, he felt he was proud of her. She truly had grown up. “Twenty schillings for a work horse, fifty schillings for a Destrier.” He said confidently. “As for shipments and a long term plan, I would refer to my steward, but I suggest we start small. Five shipments of twenty five steeds over the course of a season, and double that if we consider our agreement fruitful. No doubt you know Arbormark is a pastoral land, we have plenty of horses to sell for years, even during a conflict. As for the crown, I will fight for whatever king or queen is decided, regardless of whether they were my first choice. But if there is a war between our houses, we will cease with business until the next sovereign is decided, in which case we will all be subjects again. Unless we can find a way to guarantee peace in some fashion. Perhaps a nonaggression clause in our trade agreement, or a marriage? Though I’d like to think Karl and you enjoy our horses so much you’d think it better we were friends.”

Michaela was surprised by how far they have come. Long gone were the days of carefree laughter and innocent fun of children; now they played a new game of tag. “I certainly would prefer our houses to remain on friendly terms, but I am surprised you would bring marriage to the table.” She spoke honestly. “In a way, maybe you are stronger than I as I still hope to marry a partner who respects me as the woman I am as much as they love me rather than be chained to a man simply to save my country from ruin.” Michaela stopped momentarily to take in a deep breath, inhaling from her nose and exhaling softly through her lips to refocus her mind from such a personal subject. “I am aware of your land’s bounty and I can accept this conservative offer. I believe five work horse and twenty destriers would be a reasonable ratio for our needs so far. As for cost… is that a set price or are you willing to be flexible?”

Torm blanched, confused for a second as he looked down at the half eaten food and realized exactly what he said. “Wait, wait, I uh… Well I was talking about perhaps a cousin of mine and a cousin of yours, not… well…” He didn’t know where to begin, since he didn’t want her to think he didn’t consider her a marriage prospect, because she was certainly far too intelligent and beautiful. “Truthfully, I want to get married only to someone I love too. I suppose it’s why both of us are still unmarried but…” He finally seemed to sink a little, humbled and thinking aloud. “I suppose that’s selfish of me, to force something upon a cousin rather than do it myself. I’m sorry for the confusion, Michaela. You deserve someone far better than I. I’m just a knight that happened to be born in the family. Were I not oathsworn I would likely ride off somewhere, sell my sword or serve a noble lord, or lady-” he said, gesturing to her. “But I am who I am, and I have given my word. I also apologize for talking about so much in your presence. You just seem someone I can trust.” He gave the smallest bow of his head and a sad smile, before he continued. “I’m certain if you find the price too high, we can discuss it. Though from what little I know, that seems market price.”

Her expression softened and a small smile spread across her face. “Do not apologize to me Wolf Lord, I have enjoyed our conversation thus far. As for marriage, I deserve someone of my choosing, that alone will prove their worth.” Releasing her clasped hands and uncrossing her legs, she positioned herself closer to the table to take a drink of water before continuing. “The price is a fair one, I just wanted to see if I could haggle you. For the sake of your cousins, I will pay the twenty schillings per work horse and fifty for your war horses.” Michaela set down her mug and stood to offer her hand to Torm. “Deal?”

The Wolf Warden smiled back, pleased to see she was a woman who knew what she wanted. He was similar in mind. There was a dull scrape as his chair was pushed back, Torm rising to his full height. He was tall and fell, and likely many men had seen him standing over them before the end. But here he was warm, despite the resolute glint in his eyes. He took her hand and shook it firmly.

“It is a deal.” He said, squeezing her hand for a moment. “I’ll continue to eat if you will, but if you’ve more pressing business, I will not hold you.”

Michaela couldn’t help but notice how warm his large hand was against hers and she could feel the callouses that had formed from handling his sword often. The Dutchess squeezed his hand in return, reciprocating the small form of affection towards the knight. “I wouldn’t dare insult the cooks by not finishing this well made meal! As for my plans… There is nothing more pressing at this moment than making sure the horses are getting along well and maybe working in a session with my gift destrier. But do not worry my lord, you are not holding me here for I am choosing to stay.” Releasing his hand, she gathered her skirts so that she could pull in her chair to sit and eat once more.

“Then you honor me with choosing to remain,” He said with a low bow, and though he did not mean it as a joke, he still had mirth on his face when he looked up at her, thinking the ceremony extravagant for old friends. Once he took his seat, he was about to grab another bite before suddenly he added:

“I told you what I would do were I not the Archduke.” He said thoughtfully. “If you could choose your life, your dream life, what would it be?”

She paused, setting her utensil back down onto the table and her expression turning somber. “To live in a world where my father is whole.” she answered simply, speaking in a quiet voice. Ever since she came of age, the responsibilities of her father’s station were passed onto her. A role she gladly took to ease the burden off of him and allow him the opportunity to better rest his bones, even though she knew the only rest he would ever get would be when his final breath leaves his body.

Torm did not expect that, and he set his utensil’s down too.
“I’m sorry Michaela. I…” He closed his mouth, knowing he couldn’t say anything to make her feel better. He gently reached forward and placed his hand on hers. “I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

He and his own father had a less than stellar relationship, but it was merely a few months before he passed from the plague.

She could have said something cynical, but Michaela chose instead to say nothing. Torm had been nothing but courteous and he did not deserve those kinds of words from her. She gave him a small smile, turned her hand to cup his, and gently rubbed the side of his pinky finger with her thumb. She never expected him to understand what her family had endured or any of the other nobles for that matter. They saw her father for the power he has held all these years and as someone who stood against his hardships without the help of others. Michaela and her father had worked hard to keep it that way.

He gave a small smile, keeping his hand where it was. He was worried his hand felt awkward and stiff, but in reality that was just his mind. It was warm and comforting, though rough from his swordsman calluses.

“If your father was whole, what would you do?” He asked, staying on topic. He wanted her to focus on something positive. Everyone had dreams.

Michaela took a moment to think as she really did not spend time fantasizing about such things. Whenever there was a time she was stressed or at her limit from her duties as a duchess, she simply took a hot bath and ended her day in front of a canvas with some paint. “Perhaps I could have been an artist or raised horses? I’m sorry my lord, I seldom fantasize about what could have been. I cannot change what I am nor the circumstances that have brought me where I am today, but what I can do is focus on the future and do what I think is right.”

Torm smirked, breaking a loaf of warm bread with his free hand and handing her one side of it. The baked bread was soft and malleable in the hand. He dipped one end of his in a slice of butter, which began to melt almost immediately. “I figured the art of monarchical rule would be a boring topic for two people such as us. Then again, I can talk about military matters all day, even after I’ve fought a campaign or jousted all morning.” He supposed being good at it helped. He took a bite of the loaf, trying to cover his mouth while he spoke. His voice came in clear, at least. “I think you’d make a fine living taming horses. Then again, I haven’t seen your art.”

She grabbed her end of the offered loaf with a thanks before reclaiming her slender hand from his larger one. She would need both of her hands to properly serve herself a slice of bread. Taking her knife, she slathered on a thin layer of butter before taking a bite of the delicately baked dough. She made sure her mouth was empty before speaking, “Well my lord, perhaps this would be my opportunity to extend a gift in return. I plan on personally overseeing our arrangement myself for at least the first few shipments before passing it along to a dedicated transport, so I can bring you one of my paintings if you’d like? Then you can decide which fictional life would have been more prosperous.”

“Hey, I’m just happy to be getting paid for the horses. You do as you like with them as soon as they cross the border,” He said with a smug look, obviously half in jest. He took another bite of the bread and swallowed it in short order. But then the words sank in, and he realized he had misheard. He looked at her, brow raised. “Really? I think I’d like that. I could show you my Destrier, Lykurg. He could use the exercise and it would be a good way of showing you Arkastell. I don’t remember if you’ve ever seen it, before.”

“It has been some time since I last visited so if you’re offering me a tour, I would gladly accept the invitation.” She offered him a smile as she spoke. It was amusing to watch him fumble as he processed her words. “Is Lykurg more impressive than the horses I saw today? It is difficult to think that there is a beast of higher caliber. Then again, I have yet to work with them and experience the power they have to offer.” Michaela took a moment to wipe her fingers and mouth with her napkin before setting the cloth down on the table, signaling the maids that she was done with her meal.

Torm was ready for seconds, but he decided not to give that away. He’d ask for some food wrapped up for later, when Michaela was not present. He doubted she would care, but for some reason he didn’t want to appear anything less than superb around her. He’d do some self reflection and think on why, later. “Lykurg is my best horse. Strangely enough, he’s not a purebred. He’s a Destrier, from his mother’s stock. His father was a draft horse, however. He’s big, but sleek and powerful. Bucephelos isn’t his kin by blood, but I think of them both as mine.” He said, smiling as if the horses were his sons or battle brothers. He placed his cloth in both hands and made a quick wipe of his mouth just to be certain he was presentable “I hope I get to see more of Bu when you visit. And I hope it’s sooner rather than later. I think their power will be sufficient to the trained eye of the Lady Hohenstein.”

“Well, I do not plan on traveling with one without the other moving forward, so you will be welcomed to him should there be no other pressing matters that you need to attend to when I visit. Draft horses are strong but gentle creatures, so the pairing of two breeds should have mellowed out the mother’s stock. It is not necessarily a bad thing if you achieve the result you wanted… While speed is what everyone looks for, they forget how dangerous a well planted kick could be. Put some draft blood behind it and I’d be surprised if the person’s rib cage is still attached to the rest of them.” Breeding was an interesting subject to Michaela. How you look for similar traits, or opposing ones, in the parents in the hopes that their offspring produce the desired results you’re looking for. Parents have to be chosen carefully as if there is too much back breeding, pairings of siblings or direct offspring to a parent, then you would start seeing deformities in the newborns. She had asked many questions on the subject when she was younger and thought fondly upon the times where things were much simpler. “Well my lord, do you plan on staying in the capital for much longer? I would like to schedule the first shipment fairly soon so that the proverbial ball can get rolling.”

Torm found he was smiling as she spoke. Michaela was smart as a whip. He was impressed. The Archduke stood up from his chair, the wooden legs making an audible ‘wrrrp’ behind him as it was pushed back. Torm placed a hand on his chest and gave the bow of a cavalier. “I will leave as soon as the lady deems.” He said. He didn’t really have much to do except meet the Captain of the Guard. Then he was planning on making full speed back to Arkastell.

Michaela stood as well, pushing her chair out as silently as possible and rising in one fluid movement before offering Torm a lady’s curtsey. “Please my lord, do not rush anything on my behalf. I would just like to visit as soon as it is convenient for you to have me and the group that will oversee the shipments once we have established a business rapport.” she replied, her hands laced gently in front of her. She would have to brainstorm later on who would be suitable for this caravan, but a few people were already coming to mind.

---

Kays Maron was a bit like a mule: docile, submissive, reliable and, if appreciated's too strong of an adjective to describe his presence, then bearable better fits the bill. Elay's long-term predictions tend to unravel in unexpected twists but marrying Kays was a decision she hit the bullseye. The man's as loyal and enamored of the coveted Lily of Mythricane as he was when they first met years ago, in great part thanks to how well she manages to constantly woo him, his wealthy lineage is an excellent tool for legitimacy to House Mythricane, and his austere competence is a very welcome contrast to Artyr's unpredictability. So it was natural when the Marcher Lord and the Lady went to Coronation to pay respects in their lieges' funeral, there was an implicit but collective sigh of relief when they realized a stable temporary regency under Kays would reign, even if for a short while.

In Coronation, things were a bit less formal and jejune than Elay expected.

While Artyr prayed solemnly in behalf of the admirable Daymian, a warrior of valiance and fierceness he deemed surpassing even his own, and had a flame of zeal kindled with Anyamara's masterful expression of respect, Elay saw two people who seemed keen - far too keen - to garner attention and support. And with the throne vacant, she soon guessed their cause. The question she started to wonder about was... a king, or a queen?

A queen. That way, my claim can have a contemporaneous precedent.

Besides, Anyamara seemed to be fairly more eloquent and functional than Sharles, whose subtlety was left at the door with his fervorous speech.

Elay knew she had to make a move quickly. She saw from Artyr's gleaming eyes Anyamara had already won her brother's heart, so her next obvious step was to check on her liege, Erik. She had two plans in mind: should the Warden's choice converge with hers, they would form an alliance of some kind; should it not, she would quickly prompt Artyr to storm Edoras. Artyr's Partitavan levies could not hold a candle to the force of an entire Archduchy, but they were an elite squad and Elay had full faith they could capture Castle Drachenfel in a surprise blitzkrieg.

After the funeral, she explained her plans to Artyr, who simply replied,

"Yeah, I'm on it. Can't wait to see if Erik's really that good."

Artyr preferred the second choice of action, regardless of the possibilities. But he felt he should trust Elay on this one.

And like that, they set motion to Edoras, with a raven dispatched beforehand to let the Warden know of their visit.

Artyr arrived in Drachenfel two days earlier than Elay. Accompanied by four or so equally veteran horsemen, he rode his own horse, like a true son of the steppe. "I ain't a pompous, ratty bastard", he claimed, to be carried around in an escorted carriage. Her sister could barely swing a sword, so fair enough in her case, but a Westmarch Lord worrying about scrawny Eastern highwaymen? Certainly deserves to die for being a coward.

Erik stood leaning over the map sprawled across the large table. Various wooden pieces were placed around the board symbolizing the various keeps and troop locations around Adanion. His gaze first looked over the border to the great steppes before looking at the north of his lands. Just on the Northern side of the border stood a long line of keeps signaling the end of Eriks lands and the start of the Mistlands under Lord Engelhardt.

“I always did hate those damned keeps.”

The other attendants within the room nodded in agreement as they looked over the map. Regardless of the steel they wielded or the skill of their warriors, they were not well suited for a siege. That wasn't including the fact that in order to make up for that weakness he would need to pull men from the steppe. Something he refused to do for a variety of reasons.

The declaration of the Northern Alliance had the potential to be quite worrisome. Best case was they were simply trying to support Sharles and had no intention of actually doing anything more drastic. Of course letting the boy Sharles be in charge was definitely not what Erik had in mind. Anyarama on the other had what it took to become the queen that could keep Adanion together and orderly once again.

Erik's thoughts were cut short as the door swung open revealing a young boy who bowed quickly in both respect and apology for interrupting the meeting. “Apologies my lord, but lord Mythricane has arrived.”

“Very well then. Shouldn't keep him waiting should we? Ensure that he is brought to the throne room”.

As the boy left the room in a hurry Erik turned once more to the map and the several men in the room. “We’ll continue this later. For now keep your ears to the ground and see what other news comes out. But do nothing else, the steppes are still the first priority.” receiving a nod of acknowledgement from the men Erik left the room making his way to the Throne room.

Compared to the pale fortifications scattered in Western Westmarch, Edoras’ walls were a sight to behold. The scale of the bastion would always woo Artyr and this time it was no different. Still amazing this whole Drachenfel concept, he thought, with its castle inside a castle premise. Erik’s a fine host. Artyr was impressed by the courteous treatment he received from the Warden. Had a vassal of his visited him in Partitava, he certainly wouldn’t be so kind as to send a subject to escort them to the throne room. And my throne is not… this interesting. In fact, his was a dimly lit chamber with a few glittering trinkets here and there, and not a respectfully large hall with wondrous decorations enhanced by natural lightning and a two meters wide skull of a literal dragon staring right at the front door. I should put some horse skulls next to my throne as well. But they wouldn’t be as cool as this. No, they wouldn’t. Perhaps Erik would have some fossils lying around.

“The Archduke of Westmarch will arrive shortly”. The young escort made a hurried bow gesture before making his way outside the room.

Remember, Artyr: be subtle. I know you like to be straight to the point, I know you don’t care for talking, but these people do, and if you’re too crass in your ways, they won’t listen to you.

Artyr didn’t like his mission too much, but the possible outcome of having to assault Edoras was an exciting one. His speciality strayed far off sieges, let alone double sieges, so it would be quite a novel experience. He felt his tongue tingling to antagonize Erik and make it happen, but he felt if he was going to completely ignore Elay’s plans he should at least do it to her face. So, no matter how disappointingly, the better thing to do was feign diplomatic interest.

As he wondered about his course of action and was wondered by the mesmerizing gallery, he heard echoing footsteps growing closer. Until, soon enough, entered the gallant Archduke.

Etiquette. Please.

Ugh, fine.

Artyr begrudgingly reverenced Erik the moment he entered the room, muttering, “Milord.”

“Ah yes, lord Mythricane, welcome to Edoras.” Erik studied Artyr for a second as he took his seat on the throne. “So what is it you wanted to speak about? I assume it was something important given our face to face meeting.” Erik kept his eyes steady as he spoke, doing his best to gauge the lord before him. The last thing he needed now was more bad news coming to his ears.

“Thank you, Erik.” Artyr replied. Oh, shit, I’m not supposed to call him by his first name. He clearly broke etiquette. Eh, at this point, the hell with it. Not needed in a warrior-to-warrior chat.

“Straight to the point. Good. Well, my babbling sister ain’t around, so I’ll be short also. I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed the whole shtick during Daymian’s funeral. Y’now, the throne is vacant, and both Anyamara and Sharles want it.” Up to this point, his voice was serene and calm, but it suddenly changed to a graver, stark tone. Almost like it dropped an octave. “Who would you rather see on it?”.

Erik snorted a bit under his breath at the question. “Ah yes. The question on everyone's lips it seems. Who will sit on the throne and call themselves king?” Erik looked around the throne room for a moment. “I Still support Anyamara as I always have and have said so publicly.” Erik gave a pause before leaning forward a bit more. “Still though, we are called to defend the pass from raiders and that is what we shall do. The other lands are of no concern to us.” Erik returned to leaning back on his throne with a more relaxed posture. “We will not be involved in any squabble that does not affect us, should anyone deem it necessary to challenge us, then they will be met with the might of dragon steel.”

Artyr smirked shyly at the corner of his mouth. “Good sense, it seems. I don’t mind the petty Eastern problem either. My sister does, however. I’ll apologize in advance because she’ll still bother you… and me… about this.”

Still, Artyr had a fantasy he had to entertain. “Although I assume should a full blown war break lose, we shall ride in support of Anymara, correct?”. His smile turned into a grin. “There would be no point in protecting the East if the East has no legitimacy.”

“Should our ruler call us to march then we will have no choice. Until then we shall remain here and continue our job as our forefathers before us.” Erik stood from his seat and descended the steps towards Artyr. Reaching the older lord Erik placed a hand on his shoulder as his demeanor became more friendly. “But enough of this talk for now, you should rest after the journey.” Erik lifted his hand off the shoulder and stepped past him motioning for a servant to step forward. “Young Erwin here will show you to your room.”

“Aye”, Artyr replied, hastily adding, “... um, milord. … Thank you”.

On the corridor out, he whispered to the young boy, “Kid, where do you folks usually go for a hunt around these parts?”. Erwin remained silent before reluctantly muttering usually the northeast has plenty of antelopes. Since Erik seemed in no mood for war games, Artyr figured he should entertain himself. “Get me someone to accompany me there, yeah?”

---

The water Michaela laid in was of a perfect temperature to help soak away the aches and stresses of the eventful day that she had experienced. While the day itself had started well enough, having reunited with Lord Draufkrieg of Arbormark, it ended on a rather troubling note of this ‘Northern Alliance’ to back Sharles of Bremerant as the rightful heir to the thrown. The news had come to her through one of her father’s people, one spy among many which he had planted in the castle throughout his long years in service to the crown. As his only child and heir, she of course had knowledge of this expansive network as well as the ciphers used to send secure messages across the borders. While this business was primarily under her father’s control, she would occasionally receive or send messages through the network.

The duchess felt that this alliance was done in desperation and people who are desperate are people who are afraid. As for their candidate of choice, Sharles, she took him to be a fool. His ideas, while not without fault, were well enough for her to sympathize with but at the end of the day, he proved to be a puppet whose strings are attached to the council he chose to keep and a called upon a blood relation so distant you needed to compare detailed family trees to confirm it’s legitimacy. He simply lacked the strength Prince Daymian had and under his indecisive rule they would only experience ruin. As she reflected, Michaela sank deeper into the milky pool that was her bath and submerged herself completely within the water after inhaling deeply.

“If you could choose your life, a dream life, what would it be?”

The earlier question asked by the duke echoed through her mind once more. It seemed easier to answer now that bold moves had been made that complicated matters greatly. How would the people take it? Would they live in fear of the threat of war or would they rejoice at the chance to fight for their ideals? They would pay equally or even more so than those who were in seats of power and responsibility. Only time would tell and, until then, how Michaela spent that time would be crucial. As she resurfaced, the young maiden used her hands to push her long red hair back from her face while exhaling sharply the last of the air that remained in her lungs. Her hands moved to remove the excess water from her eyes before she pressed them against the metal sides of the basin to lift herself out of the tub. Water dripped from every part of her as she rose and she was careful not to splatter it all over the bathroom floor.

Michaela wrung out the water from her long hair before grabbing the towel from the stool that stood at the end of the tub and stepping out onto a plush woven carpet. She took a moment to enjoy the soft mat, grabbing at the wool with her toes in childlike joy for a breath before continuing to dry herself off with the towel she had in hand. Once sufficiently dry, she placed the towel back on the stool before making her way across the icy marbled floor to where her robe awaited from its hanging spot against the door. The air of the room was cold against her naked body and goosebumps rose along her skin. It was always colder once out of the warmth of the bathwater, but Michaela had heard Ilse moving about their rooms as she packed their things and stoked the fire that burned against the hearth of their fireplace. She wouldn’t be cold for much longer.

After feeding her limbs through the armholes of the garment, Michaela used the sash to fasten the robe around her slender waist. The grey-colored fabric of the garment was thick but soft against the skin and able to absorb the leftover moisture of her body. It wasn’t something so delicate like silk that would have been easily ruined from the aftermath of a long soak in the tub. The duchess opened the bathroom door into the welcomed heat of the bedroom and found their room was in organized chaos. Numerous travel chests laid open about the floor as the handmaiden packed their belongings, most of which Michaela could do without as they were primarily filled with the various layers that went into a court woman’s social ensemble. She didn’t bother to pull the other woman from her task and made her way to the ornately carved wooden vanity to prep herself for bed. Michaela learned long ago not to offer Ilse her help as the woman was highly organized and took pride in her efficiency. The handmaiden would be finished by the time Michaela was done with her hair and facial routine.

In the morning they would say their goodbyes and make haste back home to Steinland where if she were to be stabbed in her sleep, at least it will be in the comfort of her own bed. Her last thoughts of the night were of her horse, Aria, and whether or not the stress of their journey will heavily impact her mare's chances of carrying her own foal.