The gaunt boy scanned the world that lay yonder. Winds hit in his face akin to frosted punches sent by winter. Small black huts and houses dotted the landscape, the sea swung with its' white, creamy waves. His mare whinnied and shied as several men followed, unmounted. [i]Men of The Shore.[/i] Back then, they were corsairs. It was long then, now they are soldiers who patrol and arrest in Sullen Falls. Domund grunted, looking to them. Big, cruel axes hung from their belts, a buckler on their backs. Most were dressed in furs. It was quite cold, understandable. He knew they were bored to the bone. Nothing quite to do in their cold villages and hamlets, stay with your family, or fuck cheap whores. There wasn't even quite enough whores, and surely their wives were ugly. The first man was older than him, most were. A small, brown goatee barely sat on his chin, or several of them, at that. His face was ragged, a small scar on his cheek. He's lost an ear to blizzard, it seemed, and pox ravaged his face. 'M'lord, you called?' The man inquired, clutching his furs as snowflakes bit at him and winds howled, near almost like wolves. 

'Do they call you Bofford?' 
'Aye, that is me name.' 
'Very well. I have an order. Groups of thirty or so men will patrol the region.'
'Will do, m'lord.'
'Oh, and this.' Domund's hand snaked down his rucksack. He threw a head to Bofford, blood painting the snow. 

The man nodded. Domund cantered his horse down the field, then trotted over, taking a sharp turn, and off onto the road. Several of his bodyguards quickly followed on their handsome jet black stalllions. They exchanged several small words, then rode in utter silence. He remembered the time he was proud, proud of his swordsmanship, of his worth. Proud to have surpassed Vlad in something. From then, Vlad was known to make every a servant girl a whore and Domund to make every bandit a corpse. Slaughterman was the nickname. Killed whole villages, dipped babes in tar and threw them in a hearth. The babekiller, the rapist. An enemy worthy to be despised and loathed, and never was there such a finer swordsman that Domund hadn't met. It was three years ago had he seen the Slaughterman cut a man in two, and ominously advance on him. Domund was only fourteen, milk hadn't dried on his lips when his song began. A song of steel, steel scraping against steel. It was then that Domund made a riposte that cut open his opponent's throat and blood had began to flow free. It was spring back then, and the blood ran with the streams. Even Vlad's smug smile had gone when the news arrived.

He found that he was half dreaming. 'M'LORD, ORGULES.' One of his companions raised his voice, sending Domund right into the present. They had crossed the streets, hastily making their way through to the manor.