______________ Oslo, Valeal ________________

The midday sun hung over Oslo, it's rays cascading over the granite walls of the city. The royal banner, a golden dagger and wreath set against a red backdrop, fluttered violently as strong winds blew from the south. A column of men in ragged mismatched armor marched towards the city gates. They bore trophies of combat on their armor and flesh: scars and dents. At the head of the column was a cluster of men on horseback leading the others, their armor far more elaborate and costly but no less worn. One of their own carried a banner, A red rose against checkered white and black, and the banner whipped violently as the wind exhaled. The sea of common folk parted a path as the column of men approached the gates, and all eyes watched the men as they entered the city. Some of the commoners cheered or threw gifts, many others offered the men a welcoming smile. Some commoners simply minded their own, but as the column of armed men paraded through the filthy and narrow city streets they were watched by the city guard with cautious eyes.

Ahead of them houses were clustered together in a claustrophobic inducing manner as far as the eye could see. The homes looked like shambles and the streets reeked of grime. Close to the center of the city the Earth rose so that those living nearer the center could look over the impoverished masses, and the homes grew sturdier and more eloquent closer to the center. The inner walls rose high and were well manned, but they too looked ragged and worn from years without maintenance. The homes behind the inner wall were larger and more space was offered from one house to the next. In the distance yet another ring of walls rose high into the air, but far above them loomed a great keep of marble stone so white it glistened in the sun.

The column of men stopped and were addressed by one of the officers as the men on horseback rode on. They came to the final ring of walls which surrounded the mighty keep and dismounted at the gate. Their horses were ushered away and the men walked through the final gate with the banner of the Rose at their backs. At the inner courtyard colorful and vibrant flowers hugged the walkways and an aroma so exotic filled the nose you'd think you've wandered into a jungle. The hedges were cut into all manners of elaborate forms and in the center of it all was a fountain of turquoise water with marble stones encircling the walkway around it. The names of famous men of Valeal were engraved on these stones and the men barring the rose banner gave those names no mind as they stepped on them.

The main path veered left to yet another courtyard, this one enclosed by high iron fencing. Behind this fencing men and women in plain clothing spoke to one another as they strolled under the sun. Distance clangs and shouted could be heard as steel clashed with steel, but the air didn't smell of blood. One of the men, the youngest of them all with blue eyes and curly brown hair sneered at the sight of it all.
"Mages," he said with disdain.

_____________ The Circle of Magi, Oslo ________________

"Another host of Paladins of the Order has come into the city," said a man in red robes with black embroidery of unfamiliar symbols. He sat with his elbows rested on a large wooden table with his fingers interlocked under his chin. His skin was pale in complexion and his hair a blondish silver. His skin was beset by wrinkles, and his brow furrowed as he looked at the women he spoke to with worried eyes, "They're up to something. I can feel it."

The women he spoke to wore a similar garment, but a hood was drawn over her head and a metallic mask rested on her face exposing only her eyes and the disfigured skin around them. The man was the archmage of Gorgon, Kraith, and she was Lyana, the Archmage of Kain. The Dessert Phoenix as many other mages knew her, for even at a young age she was unmatched in pyromancy. Rumors tell that in her youth her own fire magic overwhelmed her and the ethereal flames burnt the skin beyond the repair of magic. She ought to have died, but she lived and thus the story of the Phoenix was born.

"Outside it may be war," she began her voice smooth and her tone calm, "but the king will keep the peace within the city."

"Can you be sure the king isn't picking sides? Rumors tell the Order is willing to pledge swords if the king boots us out, and with Ferros foaming at the mouth for open war there's no telling what deal he might strike. He knows we aren't pledging men after all."

"The king's gone through enough scrutiny over the years for hosting our mages. I don't think he'll bend his knee a pretentious order destabilizing his country," she replied. Dark storm clouds loomed on the horizon and lumbered towards the city on the back of heavy winds.

"Cleansing the country as the Paladins call it," the Kraith replied as he stood to his feet and joined Lyana at the window. "They're gaining a lot of support too. Unfortunately we aren't a popular team to be on thanks to Malfear."

Lyana's body tensed and she spoke with venom in her voice, "Two decades of war, the destruction of the tower and the persecution of mages because of a single man."

"Because of a monster," Kraith corrected.

_______________ Ferronian Outpost __________________

Water streamed from the wooden Palisades as the rain fell relentlessly. In the distance lightning crackled and thunder roared across the grey skies. Heavy spruce trees sagged in the rain and a blanket of dense mist loomed at their trunks. Figures broke loose from the mist, a small group of armored men on horseback with lances in hand and bows on their backs. They approached a gap in the palisade where another cluster of lightly armored men cleared the muddy path of wooden barricades. Their horses slogged in the mud as they entered a makeshift outpost and they muttered a curse as the rain chilled them to the bone. High over the outpost flew the banner of an Orange tiger painted against dark green cloth: the flag of Ferros.

Houses made of wood hugged each others wall's and sprawled throughout the outpost, but many of the houses were decrypted, charred and covered in moss. What once could of passed as a modest sized village was now little more than a ghost town, with only small handfuls of men walking back and forth across the bare muddy grounds. Saws and wooden logs were scattered about as carpenters had been hard at work repairing the homes, but the heavy rains meant no work was to be done today. The band of soldiers which had returned from their patrol entered one of the larger buildings. Counting themselves fortunate that the roof did not leak, they were greeted by a warm hearth and a line of cooks serving a meal to hungry soldiers. They grabbed their food and took a seat with the other men.

"Anything interesting?" one of the men asked the newcomers.

"Rain, mud and lightning," one of the patrol replied, presumably a captain judging by armor. He removed his leather gloves and blew his breath into hands as he rubbed them together. "I thought my damn fingers would fall off."

"Yesterday I passed three farmsteads," one of the others began, "two of them were little more than empty space and a pile rotten wood. We're protecting ghosts; no one lives here anymore."

"The lowlands are still ours," the captain replied, "We just need to reclaim them."

In the years of war against Malfear the lowlands were raided for all they were worth. What was once home to prime farmland had become little more than vast stretches of empty forest. In the aftermath of the war bandits, nomads and feral mages had moved in, claiming the lowlands as their own. Ferronian patrols had made headway in clearing these unwelcome guests out but occasional skirmishes were still occurring. However, despite the Queen's efforts to repopulate the lowlands the Ferronians would not budge, for the war against Malfear and the destruction of the Lowlands had left a deep scar in the memories of the survivors.

Outside a small train of wagons approached the outpost and the sounds of iron shackles rattled with each bump. In total there were five wagons, each pulling a large cage covered with a linen tarp. One of the wagons had apparently lost its cover, and the slaves shook violently from the freezing rain which pooled at there feet. In each of the cages slaves were chained together at the ankle and sat so close to one another there was little room for breathing. Some of the slaves were clothe less and their bare skin bore the scars of abuse and beatings.

The wagons entered the outpost and came to a stop. The captain of the patrol wiped his lips as he left the mess hall. He spoke a few words to the men leading the wagons and then proceeded to examine the contents of the cages with disgust. The captain turned once more to the men leading the wagons and bellowed, "We pay you for able bodies; Healthy bodies. Half of these slaves are broken."

"Broken in," the slaver corrected.

"But useless none-the-less. I'll pay half for four wagons. You can keep the fifth wagon for yourself," the fifth wagon being the one which had lost it's linen cover leaving the slaves exposed to the elements the entire journey.

"I'd fetch a better price in Valaria! I risked my life herding these slaves through your lands!"

"I appreciate that, and I imagine you would," the captain stated, "but half of these slaves will be dead of pneumonia by sunrise tomorrow. All of them might be dead by the time you reach Valaria."

The captain tossed the slaver a meager pouch of coins as he proceeded to instruct his men to unbar the cages and unload the slaves.

The Circle of Magi, Oslo

“I’m sick of it.” A frustrated growl rumbled through the small outdoor area designated for physical training. Tegan turned her attention from the students she’d been observing as they slowly went through their basic sword movements, her thumbs hooked loosely in the front of her belt, and set her bemused eyes onto the young man who’d interrupted with his complaint. The muscle stacked young man puffed himself up when he knew he had gained the attention of the long Guardian instructing them and his frown deepened with a huff.

“Of what, lad?” An eyebrow quirked in feint interest. The Guardian recognized the man from the newest batch of students to come to the Circle, but she could not recall his name. He was probably about the same age she had been when she’d joined the Tower, perhaps a little younger, and in the stage of life where he thought he knew everything. She glanced at the wooden practice sword he was strangling in his meaty fist; it looked like a toothpick. “Sword too big for you?” One side of her lazy smile pulled itself into a lopsided smirk. His face flushed red and the wooden weapon was thrown heavily into the packed dirt. Perhaps she shouldn’t be playing with the bull.

“Of this!” He waved his hands around to encompass their training field. Most people on it had stopped their practice at his disturbance and watched with varying degrees of interest as he threw his tantrum. “I know how to use a sword, my father’s personal guard taught me. These exercises are pointless. All we’ve been doing is swinging at air! What does a woman know about fighting? This is a joke.”

“Ah, well we’re all duly impressed by your skills, I’m sure.” She shifted her weight to stand hipshot, nodding her head towards a rack of bladed weapons that sat at the edge of the training area. “Go on then, grab a sword. Prove yourself and I will elevate your training and even get you a new teacher, if you wish it.”

The trainee didn't verbally acknowledge her, but stalked over to the weapons only to quickly scan them and heft the largest of the broadswords sitting on the rack onto his shoulder. Of course, she thought idly as they moved into a small fighting ring surrounded by a low fence. She swung her legs over the short obstacle and checked to make sure her magical amulet was still safely tucked away beneath her leather armor and was unable to pick up her voice. She wasn’t sure where Abraham –her partner and the one who carried the twin of her amulet- had gone gallivanting off to, but she was disinclined to pester him by having her spoken words picked up by the trinket and crammed into his thoughts all the time nor did she want to break the chain and lose the thing again.

“Ready?” Tegan asked, finally bothering to unsheathe her own blade and shake free of her slouched, relaxed posture even though she maintained a calm, confident air about her. The novice student grunted his assent and immediately charged her head on, arching his straining arms to deliver a full force swing. Bull indeed. She side stepped him and shook her head patronizingly. Slow and sloppy. He’d try to compensate for his lack of technique by overpowering her with his brute strength. That was, if he could land a blow. He may have used swords in a fight, but he most certainly did not know how to swordfight.

A few more futile swipes, a few more agile dodges, and Tegan’s opponent grew even more heated. His inability to even get her to use her blade had him fuming and her rather impassive look probably didn’t help his temper. She watched his anger grow as they walked a slow circle and saw his muscles bunch before he bellowed and charged her again, swinging the giant blade in a heedless flurry of sharpened steel. She angled away the first strike with her blade, the power of the blow reverberating soundly through her arms but bearable, and settled into a comfortable rhythm. Tegan’s style of swordplay was precise and conservative; she never used more strength or energy than was needed and her movements were fluid and exact. And though some of the combinations she used were dizzingly complex, they were not flourished. Regardless, the simple grace of it was beautiful.

Tegan found that she could easily lure him into even the most obvious of traps and knew what he was going to do before he probably even did. But she didn’t go on the offensive, not for the first few minutes. Tegan allowed the novice to burn off his angst and energy, and flailing that massive broadsword he’d chosen around like he was it didn’t take long. When the fight finely stated to fade from his eyes Tegan struck. She baited him into swinging at her midsection. Her slim blade twisted around his own and she used his own momentum to pry it from his sweating palms. The broadsword skittered a few feet away on the hard-packed dirt. The small crowd that had gathered cheered and Tegan saw more than a couple of hands exchange coin. She merely replaced her blade into its scabbard, wiped the thin sheen of sweat off of her brow, and resumed the stance she had maintained before the fight. “You rely entirely on your strength and not at all on any sort of precision or technique. Go back to practicing your movements,” she said evenly before adding wryly, "And perhaps inform your father on his poor choice of guard." A little humiliation would be good for the kid.

She turned away and exited the ring only to see a younger Guardian trotting up to her. “Tegan,” he said as they grasped forearms in the strong greeting of fellow warriors, “I don’t know if you saw, but another group of Paladins just came into the city… maybe a company’s worth.” He paused to shake his head and spit at the ground in distaste. “Some of the others have been talking about posting extra Wardens at the gates, just to be safe. I'm not fond of our situation.”

“Me neither, Joral,” she agreed, glancing off towards the main gates to their grounds. She’d never seen so many from the Rose Order holed up in one place before and it was certainly not comforting that they were doing it right at their doorstep. The Circle was currently stretched pretty thin as well. “More watches couldn’t hurt,” she added with a sigh. It wasn’t like she got that much sleep nowadays anyway. She could smell the impending war on the wind, she just didn’t know if it would be the Paladins, her own homeland, or Malfear that would strike at them first.

As soon as she and Joral parted ways, Tegan pulled harshly on the thick chain around her neck and flipped the amulet out of its confinement. “Abe? Where are you? I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but more Paladins came in today. I think that officially brings their numbers in the city up to uncomfortable.” If she once felt odd about looking like a crazy person holding a conversation with a necklace, she’d long gotten over it.

The Circle of Magi, Oslo

"Mr. Abraham?"

A small voice chimed across the gardens. It wasn't often that classes of such young students were taught by the Circle, and when they were chosen it was typically only a handful of promising children admitted to each class. Abraham saw the young mage's lips move but the sound was muffled, almost as if the child had a hand over his mouth when speaking. This, however, is something Abe had grown accustomed to since the accident on his first Feral Hunt. He had lived with the disability long enough that he'd developed a small pension for reading lips, enough so to get by on most occasions. His gentle face lifted an eyebrow to his student as if to answer: "Yes?" The child began speaking, despite his awareness for his teacher's lack of hearing. After a short pause with no answer and only confused looks from the man, the student ceased his speaking and instead chose to show Abe his problems.

The short, brown-haired kid lifted his hands to a pile of leaves and stared at them intently. Seconds later and a slight rustling, a handful of bright green leaves rose to the air. After a few demonstrations, Abraham had taught the six children in his class to manipulate the air pressure around specific objects. This manipulation of pressures encircling the objects allowed for what (to some) appeared to a form of telekinesis. In reality, it was simple physics. Moments after hovering above the pile, the leaves began to quake and spin before being violently thrown about. The child looked to his instructor with confusion in his eyes. The problem itself was clear to Abraham. It was one experienced by every new mage and often even by the most experienced magi at times: A faltering of concentration. A lack of concentration could cost a mage dearly, especially considering the most difficult times to maintain focus is when one is staring death in the face.

He turned back towards the child. The five other students gathered around in front of him as well now. Scanning the garden, individual leaves had scattered around abandoning their piles. One child, poor Marty, had leaves strewn about his hair and clothing. With all the noise coming from the city beyond the garden, it was no surprise the children had trouble concentrating. However, there is no easier way to learn than with experience. If the children could focus through the noises it would only strengthen their abilities as Magi.

Abraham lifted his arms up in front of his torso while breathing in deeply, gesturing for the children to do the same. He closed his eyes while holding his breath for a few moments before moving his arms down and exhaling, in a sort of calming manner. The children all followed suit. Four more times, as if to give them an opportunity to clear their minds, to block out the noises from the outside. Not all magi were as lucky as Abe. If there was one blessing from his disability it was the fact that he could focus easier on his spells with only hearing a muffled version of the outside world. After the five breaths, he directed the children back to the leaf piles. All except for Marty. He instructed for Marty to stand still as he raised his hands toward the child. A slight breeze ruffled the student's shirt and each individual leaf began collecting in a swirling family to the right of Abe. After plucking the last of the leaves from the boy's hair, Abe gently moved the collection to Marty's original practicing spot similar to how they were before. He stood and watched as the children returned to their lessons.

Beyond the garden walls, Abraham caught sight of a banner being carried through the streets below. He couldn't quite make out the details from such a distance, but escorting the flag was a large group of armor-clad men and women. It was an unsettling sight to say the least. As he watched, trying to make out the decor of the banner, a hand rested on his shoulder, turning him around. It was a Guardian from the tower. Robbie? Rocky? Ronald? The man's name was never clear on introduction months ago, but Abraham didn't like to bother too much with names anyway. He rarely audibly spoke to anybody besides Tegan, who was connected via the enchanted amulet around his neck, and as such didn't care to learn too many spoken details.

The Guardian spoke to him, rapidly firing off what seemed like an excessive incantation on the summoning forth of the flesh eating Swamp Demon from beneath the pits of deep Gorgon... but that could just be a slight miscommunication from the lip reading. After a surprising look on Abe's face, the guardian sighed and stopped speaking. It seems like people often forget why they call him Abraham the Deaf. The Guardian began a crude attempt at using sign language to translate his thoughts, but that left Abraham even more confused and slightly more hungry from the word Sweetcake being thrown in there somehow. The word Sweetcake should never be spoken with such worry and haste in one's face. A blank look on Abe's face and another deep sigh from the Guardian had the man attempting to slowly sign it out again. Before he could finish a word though, a voice filled Abraham's ears, the only one he ever heard clearly these days.

“Abe? Where are you? I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but more Paladins came in today. I think that officially brings their numbers in the city up to uncomfortable.”

"That must be what this young man is trying to tell me. Thanks Tegan." Abraham began speaking in a low voice and the man in front of him ceased his sign language only to take his turn with the confused face. Abe motioned a thank you sign, nodded his head, and sent the guardian on his way. The Mage whistled and the children gathered around. He motioned a thank you to the class and instructed them to take off early for lunch through the use of silly pantomimes. The children scampered off, with their muffled laughter as Abe cleared the leaf piles."It looks like they're getting more restless every day." He spoke to the amulet again. "Uncomfortable is right, I don't like where this is heading. I'm about to head to the courtyard to see what all is happening. Meet me there?"

"Also, we should get a Sweetcake. I've got another craving thanks to this...Reggie?"

Ferronian Outpost

---

The retainer of the slave wagon is a mercenary from a tribe beyond the mountains. She is thick and short and wears the fur of several animals over her stout body. Resting across her lap is an ax dotted with rust. The retainer’s bottom lip protrudes out and over the upper one. Fearsome and humorous at once, she became the next target of the game “what-creature-are-they” played between mother and son.

Fennick tugs at a loose string on his mother’s torn sleeve as he sits on her lap and contemplates the task set to him. As any four year old, he takes his time considering the important task of assigning a person their creature.

“A Rougarou,” he says, his eyes the color of a storm cloud’s shadow.

“A Rougarou? Truly?” Elisa whispers. She feigns a shiver and clutches her son closer. “Best keep a watch on her.”

Fennick smiles, his lips thinning out across his face. They are blue. “But maybe she’s a Dobhar-chu!” His breath steams out of his mouth. Elisa is grateful to be stuck in the middle of the wagon as rain water drips through the oiled linen. The body’s of slaves mashed together, elbows grinding against another, adds some warmth. She did not try to strike up conversation with her neighbors as Fennick was prone to. He cries when they shout at him to shut up, but he still tries to talk to them—like now. “Do you think she’s a Rougarou or a Dobhar-chu?”

The man beside them is naked, but his belly sags over his lap creating an illusion of decency. Elisa keeps her eyes on the top of her son’s head, stroking the hair at the base of his neck and twirling it between her fingers.

“Don’t care that much as long as she just stays over there and not bothers me,” the man says. He speaks with a sailor’s lisp and nostalgia settles in her throat. Elisa coughs to clear it away. She has no room for such thoughts of salty air and lightning storms over the ocean.

Fennick nods at the sailor as if understanding before twisting in his mother’s lap to press his hand against her stomach. “What do you think, not-born?” he asks. Elisa holds his legs down to keep from him pitching backwards and on to the wagon floor as the caravan lumbers through the water-swollen road. He sighs and rests his ear where his hand was, as if trying to hear what the baby is saying. A woman across from them shuffles and crouches between the two parallel benches to relieve herself on the wagon floor. The slavers have already made it clear they would not be stopped for one person to piss. A man with a bloody scalp in the last wagon testifies to that. (Though, Elisa supposes with the rain, most of the blood would have washed away by now.)

“Mother,” Fennick grabs onto her damp, curling hair as the wagon lurches to a stop. “Not-born says he never heard the story of the Rougarou, and he’d asked I tell it, but I told him you tell it best and I said I’d ask if you’d tell it to him.” He looks up at her. Elisa’s not sure if he took after Gillian or her yet, but those eyes are Blackwater eyes.

“I do think a story is overd—”

“Alright, come on now,” shouts a soldier. He frowns into the wagon as the slaves stare out from shadows the same color as the bruises around their ankles from the shackles. “Welcome to Ferros, you sorry lot of bark-slugs.”

Fennick gasps and whispers, “They have bark-slugs here, too?”

But Elisa doesn’t answer; she pushes her son behind her in line to exit the wagon. He grabs onto the back of her threadbare dress, falling into the routine his mother taught him. Unlike the other slaves, he is not shackled, but he still wears the same bronze collar as every slave. Elisa did not have an explanation for it and has distracted him with other stories (like the dragons of the Mountains and the demon bear of Mor’du). She knows the ignorance will not last.

The soldier glares at her bulging stomach and commands the Gorgon sailor to help Elisa down. The torch in the soldier’s hand hisses.

“Come now, Fennick, best you ride on my back, now,” she says, stepping closer to the edge of the wagon. Mud swirls between her bare feet. Her son grins and clambers on, pressing his heels into his mother’s stomach. She grunts, but keeps moving to avoid possible retribution for holding up the line. For Fennick, it is all a grand adventure. Elisa looks to the fifth wagon. None of the slaves were being unloaded from that one. She thinks of the man with the bloodied head. Perhaps, she’ll make a story about him? After all, he blocked the blow from the slavers that was meant for Fennick when he cried about not being able to piss in front of the other slaves. The chain on Elisa’s ankle tugs her forward. She does not look back. She focuses on the grays and browns of the outpost before her as to distract from the whiteness of the Gorgon sailor’s ass.

Oslo, Valeal
“What was that?!?” The man’s enraged roar drew the attention of his comrades in the barracks, but he was too strung up to notice. Instead he continued holding his glare, whipping his head around franticly. The other new recruits to the Paladin of the Roses narrowed their eyes as they too scanned the area, but seeing nothing they just shook their heads in disgust and turned to mind their own business. Whatever Fredrick’s problem was, it was starting to get annoying. For the whole damn week he’d been jumping at shadows, getting worked up over whispers nobody else even caught, and rumor was that he’d gone looney. The fact that he had supposedly reported a monstrosity roaming the streets of Oslo to the higher ups was not forgotten by his peers either. A creature clad in ruinous armor, shrouded in a cloak of shadows. As if something that obvious would have gone missed by the others in their Order, or unreported by the City Guard.

Adune chuckled to himself as he watched the entire scene play out from the barrack’s stone walls. Having abandoned his metal shell for the duration of the recruit’s torment, it had been startling easy to chip away at the man’s mind. As a Shade, there wasn’t anywhere in the Paladin’s compound he couldn’t reach. Oh, he couldn’t follow the man everywhere all the time, but he didn’t need to. Under the cover of night, he was all but invisible to tail his target during patrols. The barracks were no place of reprieve and rest either, he was the monster hiding under the bed and in the walls. With a smirk of satisfaction, he finally turned away from the scene and left the new recruit alone for good. The man was on the verge of snapping, and though Adune wasn’t above petty revenge, he did not wish to break anyone. Oh, it certainly didn’t help that he walked around in that imposing and weathered shell, but people like Fredrick needed to learn to stop sticking their heads where it didn’t belong. Even the City Guard had ignored his presence after a generous bribe was distributed to its members; a Shade like him didn’t need money for anything really. But no, the bastard had to report it to the higher ups and force Adune to abandon his inconspicuous shell lest more sightings and reports pushed the order into action.

Armed with the knowledge that that particular recruit likely wouldn’t be bothering him for his duration in Oslo, Adune took his leave. Another host of Paladins was supposed to be arriving in the city today, if the recruits talk had been correct, and the Shade figured he might as well check it out. There wasn’t much else to do in the compound either way. While he would have tried to spy on the higher ups of the organization, he wasn’t ready to push his luck that far yet. While he knew brute force and numbers could overwhelm mages, he didn’t want to find out if there was more to the Paladins than just that. So for the most part, he had stuck around the new meat whom he figured wouldn’t be privy to such secrets or be able to detect his presence.

The mid-day sun hung right overhead much to Adune’s annoyance. To anyone watching he’d be a great shadowy mist rushing out from one wall to seep into another; more than enough to raise an alarm. Nevertheless, after taking a moment to try his best and make sure nobody was around, he made his move. Dark tendrils flowed out from the spaces in between the stones before coalescing into a single, larger form. Yet before Adune fully gathered himself, he was already on the move again, surging forward towards the massive wall that separated the wealthy citizens from those that ruled over Oslo. Splattering upon impact, the shadowy wisps quickly seeped into the cracks and just like that, any trace of Adune was gone. Surging through the cracks in the wall, he made his way towards the gates within the wall, hoping he hadn’t missed the Paladin’s arrival.

The sound of the carriage and the fifty men on horseback with it was almost completely masked by the sound of the storm. Only the barest of rhythmic beats could be heard as each horses hoof struck the muddy road at the same time. The riders of which huddled deeper into their cloaks seeking whatever comfort they could from the miserable conditions around them. Inside the carriage was a different story the single man within leaned back on his seat and sipped a glass of fine red wine, one of the mans favourite vintages to be exact.

Ashkante drew in a deep breath and let out a contented sigh. How far he had come in the years since he was kicked out of his house by his father. His pleasant smile briefly twisting into a grimace before he forced his thoughts onward. Now he was the head of his house and he he had taken it to greater heights than it had ever been. Even at the height of it's power in history it was still not as high as he had taken it these past twenty years. Going from barely having 10 soldiers and a pathetic ruin to over a thousand and a magnificent castle that made all who saw it jealous. He shook his head, clearing the thoughts of the past from his mind. He needed to think he had officially been given a task by his queen to overlook the new shipment of slaves and unofficially he was to see if he could bring some more order to this land quickly and quietly.

A knock on the front of the carriage was heard and he stepped out using his airmancy to keep the rain and mud off him as he left the carriage and gazed ahead of him. The outpost loomed before him a symbol to the great might that Ferros had once commanded and would command again once this latest plot of the queen came into fruition. He could not help the smile that came to his face at the thought of it. It was genius, it would work brilliantly and Ashkante knew he would also make a great deal of money and gain a great deal of power once the full workings of the deal came to light.

Ashkante strode through the entrance to the outpost the captain stationed there waited at the entrance and bowed as he approached. "So Captain show me to these slaves."