The distant and steady beat of wardrums announced the arrival of the northmen long before they could be seen. The heavy marching stomp of five thousand men, united from over thirty barbarian tribes--only a twentieth of the army of the North--and the clomping of horses' hooves on the Southern stone road was heard for the first time since the Kingbreaker himself swept down from the mountains and laid siege to Warrhon, City of the King. In front of the army rode the barbarian prince of the North, Brogan. Flanking him was his younger brother, Brom, and his most trusted adviser and war hero, Lorgan. They stopped in front of the city gate. Atop the wall were three lines of archers as far as he could see--at least five hundred, if not more.

Unlike his father before him, Brogan was not here to crush the Southern King and free the North. The civil war of between the North and South had erupted into three-sided rebellion against the crown, against the South. As the twenty-year war progressed, the North and the West united under common interests, forming the Hinterlands. Brogan Arten had come to draw an end to this civil war; not through blood and sweat like Little Bear, but instead an alliance forged in gold. He was betrothed to Seralle Loroughe, princess of the South. This marriage would unite the House of Arten and House of Loroughe, unite the Hinterlands and the South.

Brogan's horse snorted as he stood before the gate, sweaty and covered in the thick furs the Kingbreaker had worn. With a nod to his brother, Brom stepped forward to formally announce their arrival. Unlike Brogan, who was tall and strong with the dark hair of the northern barbarian tribes, Brom was slim and short, with light brown hair and green eyes--less warlike and more regal than his firstborn brother. The younger prince began to read from a slip of parchment. "This is Brogan Arten, prince of the Hinterlands and first son of Little Bear the Kingbreaker. Accompanying the prince is warhero Lorgan Orgeson, and Brom Arten, prince of the Hinterlands and second son of Little Bear the Kingbreaker..." Brom paused. "That's me," Brogan rolled his eyes and snatched the message from his brother's hands.

"Enough!" Brogan threw the parchment to the ground and muttered between clenched teeth. "The South greets us with arrow drawn, hiding behind their pretty little walls. Remind me why we agreed to treat with such foppish cowards." Brom was opening his mouth to reply, to remind his brother about the rising religious tides in the East and their army of flesh-eating sandworms, but a door beside the gate opened and a young woman stepped out.

"On the hooves of a blizzard, far from the north he had flown,
Little Bear Kingbreaker stormed down from his home.
A trail of blood and bone did he leave; salted lands and burning trees.
Banners fly in ire of peace, subjugation broken; our bonds are released.
With a swing of an axe, Warrhon's small lord did fall..."

Her voice trailed away, her fingers dropping from the melody of her lute. Pyrra Salt lifted her head, tucking long strands of black hair behind her ears as the crushing rhythm of the Hinterland Horde slowly halted before her. Most seemed to be grizzled men, uncomfortable to be so close to the heart of a despised empire. Yet, too, among them she spied the fair; her hazel eyes falling upon the younger brother of Brogan Arten.

She had been sent to receive this large host, though the song 'Kingbreaker's Ride' was purely her choice. There was something about the rough and reverent songs of the distant lands that filled her with a secret joy.

Above her, as she fastened her lute to her hip, the archers stared down with their bows drawn and their eyes narrowed; a fact that was quickly protested by Brogan...the bear of a man who rode at the van. Once the lute was secure, she straightened her tight leather bodice and offered a sweeping bow. With her nape of her neck exposed, she spoke her first words to the man; the eyes of the northerners and the King's own soldiers on her as she began.

"Hail, Brogan Arten, son of Arten Kingbreaker. And to all those who ride with you. I am Pyrra Salt."

She tossed her hand up, unceremoniously, letting it linger there as she stole quick glances at each of the men in the front. The archers tensed, the sound of the strings stretching obvious even from where she was standing. With an abrupt turn, she shouted up the city's walls.

"OPEN THE GATE, YOU LOUTS! OR DID YOU NOT SEE THE FUCKING PROCESSION COMING?"

After the groaning cacophony of chains began, she turned back to Brogan.

"If you would follow me, Lord Brogan. I am to take you to meet with King Piervue and your bethroted, Seralle Loroughe."

Grey closed the window to his mother's bedroom as the sound of northern wardrums echoed through the city streets. 'Fuck the North and damn the Artens,' the Stolen thought dryly. He didn't want his fragile mother to be disturbed by memories of the Hinterlands or of the Kingbreaker, and he drew the thick drapes shut before sitting down on his mother's bed. Taking her hand in his, he began to talk. "Brogan and his stinking Northern horde have arrived to the city, mother. Part of me is surprised the Artens kept their word. Then again, those filthy barbarians would do anything to bed a Southern girl, and a princess especially." Grey furrowed his eyebrows and looked down to see if he had offended Boralle, but her languid eyes and gaunt visage remained unchanged. He squeezed her fingers.

Grey the Stolen and his mother, Boralle the Deadwife had arrived from the North just over three moons ago. Despite the fact that Grey was born and raised in the snowy castle of the Hinterlands, he hated the North and their warlike ways. He had always felt more kinship with his mother's family, the royal House Loroughe, but King Arten had stripped her of status and of sound mind. In an effort to make peace, Lilah had given the South back Boralle and Grey, and the South had agreed to wed Seralle to Brogan.

With a heavy sigh, Grey pulled on best clothes to greet the royal families and his half-brothers. Nimble hands flew over bone and gold buttons. The Stolen ran a few fingers through his hair and brushed a piece of lint from his shoulders. "How do I look, mother?" Boralle made no movements, and offered only a slow and seemingly thoughtless blink in response. "Yes, well... All mothers think their sons handsome. Thank you nonetheless." Before leaving, the Stolen poured his mother a cup of wine and sat it on the bedside stand. "Don't worry. I won't give anything away."

The stolen son of Loroughe sprinted down the tower stairs and toward the throne room where Brogan would be greeted. From the banquet hall, he could smell the scents of a dozen different dishes. There had been no feasts for his arrival. Grey sneered and waited with the others in the ambulatory surrounding the central atrium and throne, picking a spot beside his newfound friend and the King's bastard. "Aren't you just thrilled to see the Artens here in the South?" He whispered to Ruarc, giving a malignant chuckle. "I missed my brothers dearly. Dearly." King Piervue took his central chair, and his daughter stood on his right.

It was then that the massive doors to the throne room opened, and Pyrra Salt entered. Behind her followed three northern barbarians--Brogan, Brom and Lorgan. Only Brom had the decency to bow before the king, and Grey subtly shook his head.

"I can only imagine, Grey," Ruarc muttered, offering him a slight, crooked smile, "they're just such impressive people." There was a slight rumbling of his chest, a contained bit of laughter as he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and leaned in close. "Sera and the King were arguing, earlier. I have a feeling that this meeting is going to go badly."

He pulled away after the whisper and briefly cast his eyes toward King Piervue, wrapped in his violet velvet and adorned with his heavy golden crown.

There was a forced smile on the King's face, which made the lines of his face seem more pronounced, as he greeted Brogan and his followers. Ruarc noted that his father looked weary as he stood, leaning heavily on the polished obsidian of his cane. His old hands clutched the decorative eagle that topped the cane with a surprising steadiness that much reminded the lad of a man about to draw his sword.
Piervue Loroughe lifted his free hand and bid the only northerner that bowed to rise. He steadied himself, pressing his weight onto the cane instead of his one good leg, before speaking.

"Welcome, Brogan Arten, Brom Arten and Lorgan Ogreson. It is an honor to have you in my city as friends. "

As King Piervue bid his guests to rise Pyrra slid away. Ruarc watched her taking light steps away from the northerners and circling around the back of the throneroom. He watched her carefully, noting which shoulders she tapped and which men were prepared to defend their king. He was unsure if Grey was watching, as well, but the movements were subtle and quick; befitting of a practiced musician. It only lent credence to his unease. She disappeared into a corridor after making a half-pass around the room and as she did, Ruarc swallowed hard.

Everyone was on edge. The visitors, the king, the princess...everyone.

It was her that he watched now, the woman he had been brought to the keep to guard; his half-sister and charge. Seralle Loroughe stood in a fine dress of silk and lace, white and flowing, leaving little to the imagination while retaining what constituted regal modesty. Her flaxen hair was brushed all to one side, sweeping down on her left cheek and trailing to her waist; small blue flowers woven throughout. She was quiet, as she was in the company of the court, her elfin face pale and almost disgusted; the empty expression on her lips denied by the unrest in her shifting eyes. She was looking for an escape, he thought, a quick way to be rid of the entire situation.

She spoke then, in a voice that seemed too small for the girl he knew; too quiet and flat.

"As my father would welcome you as a friend, I must welcome you as my betrothed. My name is Seralle Loroughe, as I am sure you are aware, Brogan Arten. It is my pleasure," she nearly seemed to choke on the word, stuttering once before fully completing it, "to finally meet you."

Brom obeyed the King, returning to an upright position. As he did, his eyes met with the vibrant blue of Seralle's; the young prince could feel his face growing flushed. She was far more lovely than any of the Northern women he'd seen; unlike women of the Hinterlands, who were strong and handsome with rosy cheeks and wild, dark braids, the Southern princess was slender and fair, with hands that looked as soft and delicate as the silk dress she wore. Instantly, he was infatuated.

The moment passed, and he realized that Brogan was woefully lost in matters of diplomacy. He could feel the tension in the air like a tangible fog that clung to everyone in the throne room. Perhaps the animosity and mistrust between the North and the South was too much to dispel, but the young prince would try nonetheless. "Thank you for your hospitality," the younger Arten spoke in the stead of his older brother. "We accept and return this new-found friendship with House Loroughe and the Southern territories." He adjusted his furs and cloak, searching briefly.

The prince handed a wrapped item to Brogan, a gift which he was to present to his future bride as a symbol of good will. Brogan Arten carefully unveiled the gift: an arctic blossom--the Hinterblossom--preserved in glass. Brogan stepped forward and unceremoniously thrust the gift toward his future bride with all the grace of a barbarian warrior. Brom tried to smooth things over with his words. "This is a token of good will and romance for the Princess Seralle and her family. It is the Hinterblossom, a wild mountain flower which grows only on the peaks of northern mountains. It is the flower of the North, and a symbol of strength, beauty and eternity. It is our hope that it will bring your engagement to House Arten these qualities."

Brom watched as the first-born of Little Bear stared into eyes of his betrothed, likely gauging her reaction to him. Despite the best wishes he had for Brogan, he could not help but to feel jealousy growing in his chest and burning his ears red.

She offered a light giggle as she took the flower, genuinely amused at the grim expression of her husband-to-be. Lightly, she took it in the palms of her hands, bringing it closer to her face. It was a beautiful flower. The younger brother spoke at her, but the words were only registered in the distance.

A deep blue prismatic distortion emitted from the smoothly crafted glass, striking the splayed petals with a deeper indigo and spreading the frozen stem into tiny, spear-like tendrils that snaked throughout the prison that had immortalized the Hinterblossom. It brought a genuine smile to her face, the strange trinket she held.

"It is beautiful," she admitted, taking her eyes away from it and cradling the glass against her stomach as she offered a slight dip of her hips to her betrothed, "and I have never had the pleasure of seeing such a flower before. You have my thanks, Lord Brogan...and thank you, Lord Brom, for informing me of its purpose." Seralle didn't expect much of an answer from the man, but she met his eyes; searching for his thoughts.

His eyes were deeper than she expected and perhaps there was even a hint of anxiousness in them. She met his gaze evenly, studying him as he gauged her thoughts of him. He was a man of few words, she knew, but he knew his symbols...if this gesture were truly his.

- - - -

Terrin Quinn watched the spectacle with veiled interest, standing in his appointed place beside the throne. Standing in front of two armored knights, he must have appeared extremely small to those who were paying him any mind. His sleepy eyes were fixed on the two betrothed, the wild young girl and the barbaric young king. Most likely, it would be that those wandering eyes were more curious as to what he obscured, rather than the towering men behind him.

The two knights held between them an ornate chest, emblazoned with the sigil of House Arten. He turned his head, to King Piervue, who had taken to his throne once more. With a slight inclination, the king gave Terrin his order.

"Lord Arten," he said as bowed to the northmen, "the royal family has also seen fit to prepare a gift." Terrin swept his arm to the knights, before straightening himself. The pair opened the box, revealing a grandiose weapon; a heavy blade forged of blackened steel, bearing an engraving of House Arten's sigil.

"The box is yours, as well, Lord Brogan," Seralle added, stepping away from the northmen and her father, "if it please my lord father and betrothed, I would be alone for a moment before the feast begins."

The prince studied the person before him. He knew not his name, but guessed from the sigil of silver coins on a midnight backdrop that it was someone from House Quinn. Brogan watched the spectacle with expression of annoyed disinterest. Their language was flowery and strange--every gesture a pretense, every word a formality. He had not been in Warrhon for over an hour, and already he found the people here to be pompous and manipulative. He knew what was in the box before they opened it--maybe not in form but in function. It was meant to sway him into liking them more, and he steeled himself toward it. Whatever trinket they had brought him would do nothing for them.

The box opened to reveal a massive black sword. The prince's eyes widened. Without speaking, he lifted the sword from its lavish chest and gingerly held it. The prince admired its craftsmanship, tilting it to glisten in the windowed atrium. Black steel shone in the filtered afternoon sunlight. Part of him had expected the blade to be purely ornamental--and it was ornamental: the hilt was engraved with his emblem, inlaid with colored glass, opal and gold. Yet the sword was balanced, sharp. He then gripped it in one hand, getting a feel of the weight and percussion of the weapon. "This is a good sword," he finally said, his previous distrust all but forgotten.

Brom nudged him with one elbow. His little brother was right, Brom could not always speak in his place; but the young Arten was a man of action and not words. Instead of voicing his gratitude, Brogan removed his old weapon from its sheath and placed it into the chest. In its place, he put the gifted black sword. "And every good sword must have a name. I will call it Nightsbane, and it will crush my enemies... Our enemies." Brogan dipped his head in respect to the Broken King.

He then addressed the princess. "Yes, make yourself comfortable. The trek here was long. I will rest in my quarters before the feast as well." He turned to look at his half-brother, Grey. "I expect you have been here long enough to know the castle, brother. Show me the way." The Stolen cast a weary glance to his cousin, Ruarc, having no desire to bear his half-brothers' presence any longer than absolutely necessary.

"I will show you to your rooms, my princes. Please follow me."

Lorgan Ogreson threw another one against the ground. His squat, brutal, nearly porcine face was ruddy with fury and wet with crimson, alcoholic spittle.

"Gods! Which hell is this we've entered, eh?!"

He stood over an ornate table, littered with empty silver pitchers. Small puddles had formed on the glossy surface, a rich and fine red wine. Lorgan's shadow swallowed half the room as he shifted and circled the table; bringing each pitcher close to his face before tossing them carelessly to the ground. He snarled at one, in particular, before tipping it back and draining the contents.

"Wine in every damned room! Wine," he said the word as though it were offensive to him, "is never enough! I've emptied this entire hall and-" Lorgan tossed his head back and let loose a frothing roar, "I WANT TO..." The ogre stopped as suddenly as he had begun, turning his eyes to Brogan, first, then to Brom. The huge man relaxed, visibly, slowly placing the empty vessel onto the table behind him.

"Silent as the grave...it suits your father better than it does the two of you."

Lowering himself into a seat, despite the furniture's groaning protest, Lorgan gave the princes a wide smile.

"Aye, it was a fine blade that they gifted you with. And a fine name, too. Nightsbane. Finer still was the lass. Aye," he said again, with more energy "slender as an arrow, but with tits like my sixth wife had. A shame I'm not the bastard I once was, I might've fought you for her hand, Brogan." Lorgan let loose a booming laugh and slammed his fist on the table.

Brom gazed out the window, watching the sunset over the walls of the castle; he wished vainly that he had been born first. "If the old laws were used in the South, I would fight both of you for her." He looked at his older brother. Brogan's discomfort from the throne room had finally faded with Lorgan's jest, Grey watched his brothers with a thin-lipped stare and then left, muttering something about debauched swine.

"I prefer the sword." Prince Brogan took the weapon from its sheath, and held it out for his drunken adviser. "Do you want to hold her? Nightsbane. I've never seen tinted steel before." It was obvious the novelty of his sword had not yet worn off. If there was one thing his brother loved, it was fighting. He seemed rather pleased with his gift. Brom sighed, and straightened himself from the sill, and stepped over an empty wine vessel to his chest of clothing.

"Aren't you going to change clothes for the feast?" The younger prince disrobed of his furs and laid them out on the bed before dressing himself in a fresh shirt and leather vest. "You have to look your best. This isn't the North, we have an image to maintain. You aren't going to be liked if everyone thinks of you as a bloodthirsty Northern animal, Brogan." Brom turned his attention back to the drunken family friend. "Lorgan..." The boy folded his arms across his chest. "Everyone already knows you as a bloodthirsty Northern animal. Just... Try not to kill anyone while you're in the castle this time."

Brogan rose from the table and shook his head. "Only ladies change their clothes that much, Brom. I'm the son of Little Bear the Kingbreaker; I'll wear what I please and scare whom I want."

"Blackened steel, taken from the land of the Sand Eaters. It can cleave bone as easily as a knife slices through bread."

Lorgan took the blade in his hands, running thick fingers along the nearly shimmering blade. He tested its weight, gave it a couple of light stabs into the air and then, slowly, he returned it to Brogan.

"They say that weapons like these are created by magic. Can ye imagine such a thing? Sorcerers standing around a forge, throwing words at a lump of metal until it looks like a sword?"

He slapped his knee at the thought, just before Brom began to speak. Lorgan scoffed midway through and gave a dismissive wave, but did not interrupt the prince.

"Shit on that! Perhaps I'll show these southern girls how bloodthirsty I really am. Let me find one with her moon-blood and ye can damn well watch how bloodthirsty Lorgan Ogreson really is! I might even have the decency to let ye have her when I'm done." He was jovial again, "So long as they don't point, laugh, stare or brag too long, there will be no problem from me," Lorgan offered a smirk to the prince, standing from his seat to look down on the boy. He placed a massive hand on Brom's shoulder and stared him in the eyes. "If there's no mead, though, you can bet your royal asses that I'll be killing someone tonight." The Ogreson let loose another massive laugh as he turned away and strode toward the door, kicking aside several pitchers as he did. "Now, lads, I've got to piss. Get on to your kingly feast. If ye hear the girls screaming my name, don't bother with bothering me or I'll knock your ears sideways."

- - - -

What place is there for me amidst this noise? This infinite rumbling that tears away at focus and demands a facade be enacted. Am I merely the pawn born to play a queen or the queen born to...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden thundering of a distant drum; the applause following her father's speech about the future of the realms.. All around her, though, the din of merriment and joy resounded. Plates were moved, cutlery scraped, tankards were crashed together. Seven different songs burst into existence at once. Quickly they mingled and swirled together, creating a disjointed melody and broken chorus. Sera stared out from her high perch at the high table, to the left of her betrothed. She knew she wore a sour face, despite the resplendent feast spread before her. Unbidden, words came from her lips.

"The Sand Eaters are known to use pipes in their peace ceremonies. I find it strange, in a way, that savages can make peace with such a simple action. Their leaders meet and smoke from the same pipe, they trade stories and tell jokes," she placed her elbows on the table and rested her forehead, trailing her eyes along the chaos of the arrayed tables, slowly turning her gaze to Brogan. "it makes me wonder if that is because peace means so little to them, or if it is simply that they understand that peace is a thing to be made...not traded for." She slid her hands from under her chin and wrapped them around a horn tankard. "Then I wonder who brought the pipe."

She drained the tankard and placed it back gingerly, eyes still fixed on her betrothed.

Brogan held her gaze, listening to her voice over the rumble of the celebration. For a time, he let her words hang in the noisy atmosphere, chewing them over in the same way he chewed his food. The Arten prince was blunt. "You don't speak of the Sand Eaters. This is about our marriage." He swallowed. "But you brought the pipe to this conversation, so I will smoke it with you..." He took a drink from his horn and then sighed. "You said the Sand Eaters shared stories. I know you must have heard of my father, too much of my father for your taste. Instead, I will tell you a story about my mother."

The prince of the Hinterlands turned to face his betrothed completely, swinging his leg over the seat of the chair and sitting spread-eagle. "The Kingbreaker had four wives, the first was my mother, Lilah, a shieldmaiden and jewel of the Hinterlands. In the North, our women are as fierce as she-wolves. When the South came for the North at the Siege of Freyport, she and my father's men held off an army ten times their size, and stopped King Piervue's troops from crossing the river. It was the turning point of the war." He paused to take another large bite of meat--the only thing on his plate. "My mother is a powerful healer, and she saved my father's life. They wed after the battle, before the blood had even dried. I was conceived that night."

He took a drink from his horn, a long one, before pouring more for Seralle and himself. "It's your turn."

Seralle Loroughe allowed herself a broad smile, arching an eyebrow at her betrothed; legitimately pleased with his quickness.

"Of all the things I've been told of you, Brogan Arten, no one ever mentioned that you are a clever man. Strong, yes, they've all praised your strength in combat...and your bravery...even how handsome you are, but never once have they mentioned you capable of being witty. I daresay that is the most pleasing thing I've learned about you."

She smiled as he filled her tankard and offered a slight nod in thanks.

"Your mother sounds like a fine woman," Sera took her now full tankard and allowed herself a long sip, "it will be interesting to meet with her...once we head north." She thought for a moment, of what story to tell; whether it should be of her family or her own excursions into Warrhon. The princess took a chunk of chicken from her plate and chewed on it for a bit. "Alright, since it is my turn, I'll tell you a story. Not about my mother or father, or half-brothers or cousins or anyone in the court. I was sent, on my ninth birthday, to study magic in Gryphon's Keep; far to the east of here, near the Sand Eater lands. I had been there for nearly two years, studying the craft under the tutelage of a man known as Illixion the Mad. One morning, just after I had risen from bed, the old man burst into the room; flames wreathed around his hands. In an instant, he let loose a bellow and began throwing fireballs at me; screaming at the top of his lungs about power. The fire struck my bed and set it alight, along with the curtains and a large number of my books. I panicked and ran past him, attempting to shove him aside with my shoulder, which I did. But, the strangest thing was...I could not pass through the doorway."

She took another long sip from her tankard and finished the remaining bit of chicken on her plate.

"It was a barrier spell, woven into the frame of the door to prevent me from leaving, that threw me onto the burning bed; I started to scream. Illixion merely pulled himself up and waved his hand at me. The fire vanished, the doorway vanished, the entire room vanished and I found myself in the old man's study, sitting in a chair with my eyes pointed at the floor. I was crying, then, weeping for my mother, who had been dead for several years. I know it was foolish, too, of me to cry, but it was such an unsettling thing; thinking that I had truly felt the flames on my skin. The old man looked down at me with sadness in his eyes and asked me a question that I will never forget. 'Seralle,' he said in his strange accent, 'why do you fear death?'. I had no answer for him, then...and still do not."

Sera sat her tankard back in its place and looked at Brogan, briefly tracing her eyes over the lower half of his form.

"I think, though, that I fear death because I have yet to live," a sudden blush came to her cheeks, "I-I apologize, Brogan, I meant to speak of something more pleasant."

Southern cuisine was very different from the food of the North. All of the meat was heavily spiced, and many of the dishes were coated in a sweet glaze. The wine here was sweet too, not dry and tart like the wines of the North. There were exotic fruits and vegetables Brom Arten had never before seen, and he wished his stomach larger so he could taste them all. Yet the food was not what interested him the most: instead, he was consumed by thoughts of the other Southern delicacy, Seralle.

Brom leaned forward on the table to get a close look at his brother's bride-to-be. He could barely make out what she said over the sounds of drunken celebration and dining. The drinking songs of the South had yet to fade, but he was far more interested in the sad melody of Seralle's tales. She was beautiful, and he imagined that she had been a lovely nine year old girl as well. Illixion the Mad sounded like a cruel old man for scaring her so much, especially a princess so young. Brom could feel a strange urgency rising in his gut--a growing need to comfort and protect Princess Seralle.

Her genuine conversation with Brogan was an act which had only served to intensify his budding infatuation with the Southern princess. She seemed far more real than any of the other members of the court, far more sincere, even from her position of influence. Brom felt, though he had not met her until today, that he was intimately familiar with her. Seralle sounded so honest, so sad. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he had to be closer to her. The second son of the Kingbreaker stood from his seat and opened his mouth to speak, but Brogan's deep voice came first.

"You don't fear death," the older prince began, placing a warm and calloused hand over Seralle's, "you said so yourself. You fear a life unlived... So live." Brom's gaze flicked from their hands to her face, jealousy burning in his chest.

'She thinks he's handsome, strong, and witty...' he internally brooded, 'She thinks he's better than other northmen.' If the old laws were still intact, Brom really might have fought his brother for her hand. As it was, he could only resign himself. Only his brother's death would let them marry, and as much as he wanted her, he could not wish for such a terrible thing.

The younger prince sighed and returned to his seat, pushing his food around with one of his prongs. The fare which had only moments ago been so appealing now seemed like gruel. His appetite and his good mood had evaporated. Brom was roused from his self-pity by loud 'thud' of the banquet hall door slamming open. The eldest member of the North's army and the princes' personal guard sauntered in, a giggling Southern darling slung over one shoulder and a pitcher of wine in his other hand. The younger prince covered his face with his palm. "This can't end well," he muttered.

"An' they called him the broken king,
of his wound they would sing!
Broken and beaten, his throne he still kept,
while in the north his stolen sister wept.
What in this world can't be fought for?
Changing the past and taking the north!"

He let loose a booming laugh, swaggering between the tables, the echoes of his surprisingly rich singing voice echoing in what had suddenly become silence. Lorgan Orgreson watched the wave of bewilderment sweep over the supping southerners and noted the wry smiles on the face of his northern brothers. They had a saying, in the village he was from. 'There is no festivity without some controversy.' He couldn't remember who said it, but the massive man had taken the mantra to heart. That is not to say that he purposefully made a scene at whatever feast or wedding he attended, but it would seem to most that trouble followed the drunken ogre. The lass on his shoulder kicked a few times, giggling, feigning a fight. She was nearly as drunk as he, a pretty, blushing lass that smelled of southern flowers and the sweet, subtle acidity of wine. He was fairly certain she wasn't a lady of any sorts, yet this was more than made up for by her supple curves and bright eyes.

"What," he called out to the assemblage, his eyebrows arched in question, "in the bleeding hells are ye all looking at? It's just a song." The query was accompanied by a wide, toothy smile and the rumbling of his chest as he let loose a laugh. Rolling his shoulder, he dropped the girl into his waiting arms. "Come, Lyarili, let us feast in honor of the coming peace!" Lorgan carried the girl to the noble's table and sat, adjusting her that so she would sit upright in his lap. Still, he towered over her and she sat there; blushing and smiling and nuzzling herself against the large man as she got comfortable. Gone was his armor and axe, replaced by a ragged tunic of gray and black trousers. He eyed the food with great interest, observing the strange southern treats with more than a bit of enthusiasm. The girl gathered food onto the plate, seemingly oblivious to the scorning eyes upon her from the other tables and made certain to pile it high.

"Aye, ye'r a good lass. Be sure to get the meat. What is a feast without some meat. I hope these southerners can cook better than they can fight."

Grey the Stolen listened in horror as Lorgan Ogreson crooned about the Southern tragedy and the rape of his mother. He could feel the color drain from his face in cold anger, and his blood bubbled with hatred. It was not the first time he had heard this tune; it was a popular song among soldiers of the Hinterlands--sung largely in the feasting longhouses during nights of celebration--but he had always despised it. He found nothing celebratory about the crippling of a noble and just king, nor the circumstances which led his mother to become an invalid. On the contrary, Grey thought the lyrics to show a disturbing lack of empathy toward the suffering of the South, and he loathed the Hinterland bodyguard for such a display of tactlessness and cruelty.

With hands that shook from restrained rage, he carefully placed servings of his mother's favorite dishes onto a spare plate. He knew which foods she loved most: honeyed ham, pickled peaches with spiced cream, shredded vegetable salad with vinaigrette, fried sweetbread, and scalloped potatoes--careful so that the items did not touch.

Grey tried not to leer at Ogreson and his traitorous wench. There was no need for him to punish them outright; Lorgan had proven himself to the Southern nobles to be as crude, stupid, and belligerent as it was rumored all northmen were. He had confirmed their distrust and resentment of him, and it would likely transfer to all visitors from the Hinterlands--especially those whom the hulking lout advised.

The Stolen picked up his own platter of food in one hand and his mother's in the other. He leaned over to Ruarc Hinn, as to speak unheard by eavesdroppers. "Cousin, can you believe Brogan finds the advice of such a barbaric man so invaluable as to bring him here?" Grey's lips were drawn thin, and his expression unreadable yet gaunt. "I can't endure him. I'm going to eat with Mother."

The lost son of the Kingbreaker made a quiet exit, slipping through the door left open by Lorgan. He made his way up the tower to visit Boralle, knocking before entering. There was no reply. "I have brought you food from the feast, Mother. Your favorites." He sat the plate down on the bedside table beside the now empty goblet of wine. Grey the Stolen poured her a fresh glass. "It is so much nicer up here with you... The hall is full of boisterous fools. Not like us..." He smiled and touched his mother's forearm. For the first time today, she looked at him. "We'll be rid of them soon. I promise."

As kings feasted in Warrhon, blood spilled onto the sands. As they lifted their cups, the Sand Eaters lifted their blades.

"I curse you, Urutuuraak Shadowsung and all those bound to you. The vultures will pick your bones and carry your soul to their children. There will be no one left to mourn you. They will return to the Worm. You," the Sand Eater spat at his foe, "will become one with the Waiting Death. In time, you will carry away the souls I curse."

Silence followed, save for his foe's weak and intermittent gurgling.

"All things return to the sand," he whispered into the dead man's ear, after a long pause, slowly drawing the blade from his foe and letting his useless body topple to the ground.

Blood splattered against his feet, sprayed from the visceral ruin of Urutuuraak's throat. Urutuurak had been chief of the Shadowsung...and now he was little more than a husk. He pressed his foot against the corpse's face, rolling the former chief's head with the toe-end of his sandals; staring into the listless golden orbs that had once housed a fiery soul.

Outside of the tent, battle raged. There was no great thundering of the dune worms; no familiars conjured from the Djynn Realms. It was a battle of pure strength and the Ashtongue had grown far beyond simple strength. What once was a tattered, ragged band had become one of the most feared clans to stalk the midnight dunes. While Jehyr was not their leader in the ways of The Great Devourer and the many Djynn Gods, it was he that lead the warriors into combat. It was he who sounded the call for battle and he who was first to draw blood. Such was his right, such was his honor.

As he stepped from Urutuuraak's tent, the sun bore down on him; casting waves in the air before him, dancing in a draining, bloodthirsty excitement. Vultures circled above, their keen ears cast to Jehyr's curse on the Shadowsung. For it was they that were the Void Eyes and Waiting Death; those that stripped dead flesh and soul for The Great Devourer. The Shadowsung belonged to them. Even as Jehyr stood in the light of the sun, they fell. Their spirit had been killed with Urutuuraak and their strength had fled with his last breath.

Turning away, Jehyr Ashtongue set about tearing down the chieftain's tent; preparing an offering for the shadows that circled above.

Birds, she brooded, ever are his thoughts with the birds.

Pyrra Salt made her way through the garden, stepping over the broken petals of noble passings and through the scattered twigs of caustic, careless indifference. She noted each broken branch and trampled petal with a careful eye; staring down the bridge of her nose to take note of those in her path. There were many men in Warrhon, many careless, oafish men who used heavy blades instead of honeyed words. Their passage was marked here; a shoulder brushed against a hanging arrangement of roses, a dirty, dragging foot tearing loose the rich soil and spreading it into the walkway. More signs existed, miniscule and scattered.

She sighed, striding through the humid bitterness in the air; wiping beads of sweat from her brow. The garden flowed by, scattered petals of myriad hues along her path. Strangely, she counted each one. There were one hundred and seven scattered petals along the path from the Great Hall to the Aviary. It was a fair gamble that her brother, Judam would be there.

Does he ever think of the flowers?

He would be there with his falcons, knowing her presence from the first step she took into his domain. She admired that in him, his careful measure of those around him and desire for solitude. Pyrra and her twin were the fortunate Salt children, the oldest and those born to inherit the work of their industrious father. Though Delris Salt still drew breath, there were many who feared that his life was nearing its end. Pyrra paused at the door of the Aviary, her thoughts turning to her brother once more.

Judam thinks of flowers as often as I think of birds.

She allowed herself a rueful snort and threw open the heavy door, taking care to make her first footfall the heaviest. Stepping through, Pyrra placed one hand behind her back and extending her fingers to catch the door. It tapped against the tips of her digits and she slowly lead it back into place. With a surprisingly subtle click the door slid into place.

"Judam," she queried up the spiral staircase wrought of dark iron, her eyes trailing up its wild winding and into the dim obfuscation above, "take a break. Your sister's come to visit."

Pyrra leaned against the door, crossing her legs in front of her, a slight smile creeping onto her face. With her gentle, fluid motions the lute on her hip swayed and the parchment clutched in her other hand scraped lightly against the door.

- - - - -

It was a song he had learned listening to Pyrra, when she played on the quiet nights where the hall felt to be more a tomb than home to the bastard Hinn. The song was called 'The Reclaimer' and detailed the life of renowned king Giald Loroughe. He had never managed to commit the entire song to memory, but the first few lines had always resonated with him; the words etching themselves into his heart. Ruarc sang quietly into the damp recesses of his tankard, a mere whisper at the first syllable...a quiet growl near the end.

"Bastard son of the rising sun,
turned away at the break of dawn,
such a sight did the gods ever see,
the fear and loathing that babe would breed."

He stared at his relfection in the bubbling ale. His own eyes, made rhuemy and amorphous in the shifting froth, bored into him. There was a look of disappointment on his face, sour and laced with a pungent, festering hurt.

I know your bitterness, cousin, he told Grey while telling himself, some songs shouldn't be sung.

Perhaps it was merely his own melancholy that shaped his thoughts.

With another heavy sigh, Ruarc lowered his tankard and stood. Perhaps it was that he stood so slowly, that some eyes trailed to him. Or, perhaps, it was their mistrust of the strange boy seated in their midst; the fast friend of The Stolen and ever-silent companion of Seralle Loroughe. He ignored them, casting his eyes to her, where she sat speaking to the northman. She was safe, he supposed and more lively than he expected on a night such as this. It pained him, in a way, to watch her be so quickly comfortable with her betrothed; but it was not his place to question the judgement of royalty.

Ruarc Hinn left the great hall in silence, tracing the steps of his cousin.

A cacophony of bird calls echoed around the torchlit room--the piercing caw of a murder of raven, the screech of an eagle, the cooing of dozens of pigeons. He had even been busy breeding doves to release for the wedding. The male Salt twin was engrossed in his work.

He swept the bird droppings from the floor into pan and threw it out the window, his mouth and nose veiled by a handkerchief. It was not work usually done by a man of his status--usually reserved for one of squires or maids--but he enjoyed his solitude far more than he disliked sweeping.

While leaning out the window Judam Salt emitted a high-pitched whistle. Moments later, his personal falcon--Mulder--landed on his outstretched glove, the bells on his ankles jingling. The Salt twin pulled a morsel of rabbit from a bag on his belt and felt it to Mulder, stroking him along his feathered neck with the back of one finger. "You obeyed quickly, Mulder. You're learning so fast," he praised, clutching the small strips of leather that hung from the falcon’s legs.

Judam took his falcon into one of the empty mews. It was a large room which served not only as housing for his raptor, but also as a storage space for his falconry equipment. Mulder flew from his hand and onto a perch within the room and Judam closed the door to safety chamber.

Judam heard the sing-song voice of his sister calling him, announcing her arrival to the aviary. It echoed up the stone stairway, and it was not long before Pyrra followed. She leaned in the door, a smirk on her face and a note clutched in her hand.

“What is it, songbird?” He returned her smile. It was always nice to see one of the few people in the kingdom he actually enjoyed talking to, even if he assumed it was for business. “Do you have a letter to send?”

"To send" she queried as if the idea were somehow unfamiliar to her, "No, dear brother, merely a letter to deliver." She offered to him gingerly, stepping away from the door and more into the realm of birds. She heard the quiet ruffling of their feathers in the distance and an occasional chortle or, perhaps, a muffled squawk. Pyrra adjusted her stance and slid around her brother, casting eyes about the room with an intense curiosity. It seemed that things within the Aviary switched their positions frequently, making it something of a game to her to attempt to imagine the scene as she had last seen it.

"To you, particularly," she said over her shoulder, casting pale eyes at her brother for a moment before going back to making notes, "from Father. He sends his regards, as well as this letter. Beyond that," Pyrra offered with a muted chortle of her own, "I suppose it's between the two of you." Her hands slid onto her hips as she made quiet notice of a loose stone on the floor, at the foot of the wall, and a clean square on the dusty table where a stack of papers had been on her last visit.

"I bore the letter for love of you and lack of want for the night's feast. Seems most things have become bitter, in recent days."

She was loathe to speak to her brother of the troubles of the kingdom, but there were few ears she could trust; and much to be said on the subject.

- - - - - --
"Yes, that was during my first year in the capitol. The wine was exquisite, but the times were hard..."

Forthel Quinn narrowed his eyes, seemingly seeking a distant memory. To those who would watch, he seemed to be the victim of a drunken reverie; to hear his mouth tell the tale. In truth, he was searching the crowd for a familiar face. Those who served the Quinn family from the shadows were many, their faces unknown to those of the court; but there was one who was sure to be noticed. That was, if he had dared to show his true face. Forthel knew that Friar Cayn was a man of subtlety and obfuscation and would rarely dare to show his face at a royal event; at least not his true face.

That was what occupied Forthel Quinn, searching for the unfamiliar in a room all too knowable. The others around him had turned away, believing his story to be finished as he stared, mouth slightly agape, into the distance. He watched the feast, the nobles, the king, the princess, the northern princes, their guards. All was in place at the high table. Yet they did not concern him, not yet. The room was tumultuous, plates and cups and people shifting and changing places like entropic clockwork. He watched them move, some gears and some pins, searching for the rat in the machine.

Finally, he spied the disguised assassin. Cayn sat with his arms crossed, a bemused smile spread across his false face. He sat and broke bread and ate his fill. Forthel Quinn watched him for a long while, until the man turned toward him. Slowly, the assassin stood and said farewell to those at his table. For a time, he waited, before bidding farewell to the table, begging pardon and slipping out of the door.

"Where's my money," came the whisper from the shadows, as he passed by the first arched hallway.

"You'll get your money when I have proof of your success."

The assassin grunted and pulled a roll of papers from his clothing, offering it forward with a stabbing motion.

Grey left his mother's room again, empty plates and cups stacked in one hand. She had eaten quickly. He wondered with a certain bitterness if the servants which cared for Boralle had been feeding her well enough. It took a great amount of patience to adequately care for someone bedridden. The Stolen made a mental note personally oversee his mother's mealtimes. He simply could not risk anything happening to her; she was too important--too integral--in the upcoming events to let her fall ill, or worse.

He opened the door and immediately ran into his cousin, Ruarc, who had been lingering outside the door to Boralle's chambers. Silverware and empty goblets hit the ground in a loud metallic clatter, and one of the plates shattered as it hit the floor's masonry. Grey the Stolen, who was a small and mousy man, fell back squarely on his buttocks.

Grey scrambled to pick up the broken shards of porcelain and other dishes. “Oh, Ruarc, I am so sorry. I didn’t see you there…” The Stolen swayed to his feet. How much of that did he hear? Surely nothing, surely nothing of her true condition… Surely nothing her true intentions… He felt his hands tighten on the shattered dinnerware enough to turn his knuckles white and to draw blood.

“H-how long have you been waiting on me?”