[b]15th of Sun’s Height
Ferrand Bellemont
Siege Camp outside Wayrest, Greater High Rock[/b]

Ferrand’s flowing cloak billowed behind him, purposeful steps bringing him towards the tent designated for meetings between the lords-marshal and their subservient captains. Word had come to him by messenger boy that the lords and fighting-ladies and their captains had come up with something ingenious to speed up the process of sieging Wayrest and getting Gregory Bellemont onto the throne. With no living heir to the Valois holdings, their annexation into Daggerfall’s realm would be seen more as something of necessity that the High King of Greater High Rock simply must do to keep stability in the realm and who better to put up as Lord-Protector than his own son, whose skill as a ruler had been instilled in him by Ferrand himself? It all made sense.

And that was what he wanted. His musing ended as he stepped through into the confines of the tent, his steely eyes being cast upon the lords and ladies of the realm who had taken up sword and shield when he called. He took his seat at the head of the table and still, they remained quiet before Ferrand cleared his throat and spoke, “I am told that those in this room have something of great importance to tell me. So, out with it.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Vivienne was the first to open up, “The gates will not open for us, we know that much, and even if our blockade captains tell us that Ambrose had escaped, the brigands inside the walls have likely chosen a new leader. We cannot capitalize on a power vacuum if there is not one, but we know of a way to get the gates open.” Lady Vivienne smiled, looking to Captain Ingvar, a mercenary captain from Skyrim, to continue.

“Corkwood. Vests of corkwood, lightly armored men, leather, no metal. They won’t be able to open the gates if they sink and they won’t be able to get inside if they’re clinking and clanking about. Padded cloth and leather, corkwood, they swim to the docks at night, deal with the sentries and slip in dressed like the enemy. Simple task, my men can do it.”

“Very well,” Ferrand smiled ever-so-slightly, “When can this be done?”

“A week, we are having the vests made and they will be done and ready for wearing about that time. Ten men are quieter than an army, m’lord.” Ingvar said.

“Well, justice will be done in a week,” He said, “For Crown and People.”

“For Crown and People!” They all responded as Ferrand rose and left on other business.

[b]15th of Sun’s Height
Everard III
Road to Wayrest from Shornhelm, Greater High Rock[/b]

“I hope that Witchman shit didn’t leave the place too untidy.” Everard mused, cleaning his fingernails with the point of his knife.

“I would hope he didn’t,” Narcisse said, “It would give me reason to be even more furious at the man. They say time heals all wounds but all it did to mine was make them nastier.”

“I can relate, O Prince of Camlorn. Had my brothers survived their involuntary exile, I would have joined them in their return, but lo and behold, fate has left only me to take what should be mine,” Everard held the point facing towards the window, appreciating the sharpness of the blade, “I have royal blood, and not just any royal blood, but Valois blood. A little muddy, yes, but Talos became an Emperor and he was probably just a shit shoveler before.”

“He was a general, sire.” Sir Roderic piped in, a lack of armor seemed not to impact the severity of the man’s presence.

“Yes, yes.” Everard waved his blade in the air as if shooing off Roderic’s words.

The caravan made quite an impressive sight on the road, to be sure. Shornhelm’s banners raised high and five-hundred fighting men, knights and men-at-arms as well as footmen and bowmen. A small army under Duke Egan’s command and anyone who’d seen him suited up in his old armor could tell you that not even the Ghost Sea was as wide as his smile. Egan was always a fighting man and before he took the throne, he served as his father’s marshal. Not a whisper of dissent from anyone could be heard when Egan was the marshal and in charge of everything lawkeeping. Most men would have jumped at the chance to be Duke but Egan never wanted anything to do with ruling. He was perfectly happy on the road and in the saddle, armored from head to toe with sword and lance.

Everard would need men of such conviction, men who wanted to kill for him. He’d take anyone who wanted to kill period, so long as he could point them in the right direction. A man has to play his pawns. Although, he thought he was lucky to have his band of merry men when he was trudging through the dirt, cursing Ambrose’s name, but now he was at the head of five-hundred men who were born and bred in Shornhelm to want nothing more than to rip the heads off of anyone unlucky enough to have them pointed in their direction. Everard had a damned wide grin of his own when he first looked out at his retinue.

Now, a few days’ march out from Wayrest, Everard had more to show than plotting and anger.