[b] Alistair Suttbray [/b]

The sound which was given off by the great southron train of mounted men and iron-wheeled wagons was something akin that that of a great thunderstorm, and had roared in this fashion for days on end. The road from Lochbridge Port to Skyhaven was a long and oftentimes decrepit affair, made of cobbles here, brick there, and dirt everywhere. The Smiling Fox and his significant tale had rode the whole way there, hauling their gifts for the fabled city and its small-folk dutifully. They threw up dust everywhere they went, and had to stop frequently to rest their horses or mend their wagons. If it wasn't too hot, it was too cold, and if the air wasn't filled with hoof-born dust it was thick with miserable showers. Alistair had ridden near the front of the column astride a great destrier the color of pitch, and while the horse was a truly formidable sight to behold, he now found himself longing for the smooth gait of a palfry more than anything else. Still, while the ride from Lochbridge Port to Skyhaven was tough, it was still better than the voyage from Cyrene to Lochbridge.

Their journey had started out pleasant enough, with Alistair and his party, along with no small amount of north-bound gifts, traveling down the Roanwater. The river meandered pleasantly as it always had, sending one of Suttbray's grand royal barges from Confluence towards Cyrene without hazard and affording those aboard a great deal of comfort and luxury. When they reached the Wilharnese city of Cyrene though, with its spice-laden breezes and thin wooden buildings, they were received by a small fleet of cogs, and here the trip truly became a nightmare in Alistair's eyes. The Smiling Fox was a Suthi through-and-through, a good earth-loving man, and the sea was not for him. His stomach had tossed all around during the voyage, and seemed to want to remain empty despite all attempts made to fill it. To make matters worse, a great storm had harried them all the way up the coast, and great waves the size of ships themselves had spent the entire time competing with rainstorms to see who could soak the men on board to the bone more quickly. During the voyage Alistair's chest had begun to act up again, and the man had coughed up blood till he was made pale due it's loss and bedridden for the remainder of the voyage.

By now, all these days later, the southron King was still in sore shape, though one could not tell just by viewing him. His legs and rear were sore and stiff from the ride, his complexion paler than usually, though hidden under a fine skin-colored powder so none would notice. His cough had been worse than usual ever since their voyage though, and by now his fine kerchief was slathered with blood and his breathing troubled him. Alistair had been born and raised a Suttbray though, and as such had learned to hide his own troubles well, instead putting up a cheerful and polite facade and adorning his face with his omnipresent smile. At least a bit of this smile was genuine though, as the King and his tale neared the northern city, where he could receive some much needed succor and settle the grave business which was laid before him. The realm was crumbling, with no High King other than a boy who was still in the midst of learning his letters and, more importantly, no crown to ward away the icy jaws of winter. If ever there was a time to put aside differences and work together it was now, though Alistair knew the minds of men well enough to understand that there would be many looking to take what they could from this dying empire and run into the hills with it.

These were Alistair Suttbray's thoughts as he closed the distance between himself and the gates of fabled Skyhaven, and they sat heavy in his head. Still though, he kept this head aloft as he and his train of gift-laden carriages and steel-coated riders rode through the great gates and into Skyhaven. It was evident that the small-folk who called this cliff-clinging city their home had already seen many other Kings and their entourages come and go through their neatly cobbled streets, as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder all around and leaned out of their windows in anticipation. If they could not identify the southron party as being that of House Suttbray from their dress and skin-tone, they could still tell the party's allegiance plainly from the eight giant fox-clad standards which were hoisted by riders on each side of the lengthy column. Many looked at the party in awe, as it was more richly adorned than most, and seemingly unnecessary and even burdensome in size. Lances bristled all around, and sun reflected off of vigorously shined plate to a nearly blinding degree.

The column stopped a good way down the street as it reorganized itself to prepare for it's march through the city towards the Phoenix Palace. The men and women of the city shuffled closer to get a better look at the southron King and his knights, though the crowd was oddly hushed. When the rear of the column caught up and the entire length of the party formed up more tightly, a great man of Wilharnese descent who sat astride a powerful destrier thundered out an announcement, his voice flavoured with the calm, slow drawl of the folk who lived on and around the great Roanwater.

"Open your hands and keep orderly, fine folk of Skyhaven, and taste of the wealth of Everfield and Wilharne. All shall consume our gifts, great or small, rich or lacking, so step forward and receive your morsels."

It was and always had been customary for Suttbray Kings to feed the lesser folk in a manner similar to this. No man should starve while others had plenty, as far as tradition was concerned. And so the Kings of Everfield, and more recently of Wilharne too, would feed the people wherever they went with fine southron fare. The cities they graced were fed well, and country folk could guarantee themselves a good bit of nourishment if they approached a Suttbray procession with hands open and bellies growling. There was a more practical side of this practice of selfless charity of course, for words were wind, but a bit of food could fill a man's belly and earn his heart, as well as his trust. 

Suttbray servants stood beside the wagons, eight or so for each, and went in and amongst the crowd with sacks of flour and grain upon their shoulders, or oranges and salt beef in their baskets. Thick, dark loaves of bread hardened by the voyage were distributed alongside small sacks of the rarely seen and extremely opulent coffee bean. Good, filling fare was handed out alongside exotic luxury goods, with both being deemed important. Bags of salt and bottles of spices were distributed, odd hard fruits passed out alongside woven baskets of mundane potatoes. The small-folk scrambled to get their share, though they stayed more or less civil under the watchful eyes of the steel-clad soldiers, and those which caused too much of a ruckus were shooed off as if they were dogs, rather than men. All the while the column moved forward at a snail's pace, with more people pouring out of the alleys and exiting their pretty marble homes to see the Southerners and eat their fare.

Above all of it rode Alistair, appearing to be the definition of a great lord. He wore a fine silk jerken the color of pitch and devoid of stuffing of any sort, with stylish swirls and meaningless designs sewn onto the fabric in cloth-of-gold. Beneath this he wore a simple full-sleeved garment of white linen, meant to be more comfortable than lord-like. Over all of this he wore a summer cloak of double-sided red fox-fur, and though it was made of many skins they were so well blended than one could not notice unless they stood a nose-length from it. For leg-wear, he had donned a pair of southron trousers made from fine, durable lambswool and dyed midnight black, with a fit which allowed a bit of give as far as movement was concerned but did not near the loose fit of Wilharnese pantaloons. His feet were clad in boots which were made of a supple leather within and black fieldsnake skin on the outside. His head was uncrowned, as House Suttbray had lost it's crown nearly two hundred years ago to the sea, when King Haldrin had flung himself off of the cliffs of Rushbluff to end his own rule. Instead, his symbol of authority was Lamentation, one of those famed makitherin blades granted to the founders of the Great Houses by the Star Maiden herself all those years ago. The sword sat in a fine sheath of black leather and white diamonds on Alistair's left hip, accompanied by a more mundane sword of similar make sitting just below it in its own sheath. 

The trip through the city took a full three turns of the glass plus another candlemark to boot, much longer than it would have taken had the Suttbray column refrained from divying out foodstuffs. But tradition and charity prevailed over time in the eyes of the Suthi and Wilharnese, and so they made it to the Phoenix Palace later than most, if not all. The whole way, Alistair walked his horse over the cobbles and admired the white marble towers and elegant architecture of Skyhaven. Confluence, his home, had it's own charm to it, and was certainly beautiful with its smooth grey stone structures, long canals, and poleboats, but Skyhaven was a wonderful variation from the norm. Where Confluence was alive with water and flat as a field, Skyhaven was vertical in build and nestled high up in the dry mountains. He had been here before, having frequently visited the city when he had been one of the lords sitting on the High King's Council. He had even had his own apartments in the Phoenix Palace, though they were cold and uninhabited more times than not, as the High King had usually allowed him to conduct his business back at Confluence. 

Finally, after what seemed to be a full day, the column reached the Phoenix Palace, wagons now unburdened of most of the gifts. Alistair sat astride his midnight destrier for a moment, staring up at the walls of the Royal Palace of the Phoenix. He had not laid eyes upon the palace for nearly two turns of the wheel, though it certainly hadn't changed in that period of time. Various Kings' men from all across the Realm were hurrying hither and tither to perform the many tasks associated with arrival- unloading supplies, parking wagons, and stabling horses to give them some much needed rest. Alistair ordered his men to do the same, and the column broke into a crowd, with armored riders making their way towards the stables alongside lowly servants and wagon drivers. The Smiling Fox watched the organized chaos for a few moments before dismounting as well and beckoning over Big Mord, his barrel-chested Wilharnese squire, one of the few men he trusted with Lamentation, and handed him his dagger, two swords, and horse's reigns.

He then turned towards the castle's foremost portal, a large, though not inoperable, door and moved towards it, a small group of three unarmed guardsmen, most notably Thaddeus Field, accompanying him. The door was opened before him by one of the castle's many servants, and Alistair stepped into the reception chamber with his entourage of three men just behind him. The circular chamber which they stepped into was just as finely adorned as he remembered it, with tapestries and murals covering the fine granite walls and ornaments and baubles of gold and silver sitting as decoration either here or there. As the southron party moved forward towards the main audience chamber where they were to be received, Alistair took a deep breath a smiled even larger than before. He had missed the Royal Palace of the Phoenix, and while he could not say it had been worth the journey, getting to walk it's halls once more was a true treat. While his own palace in Confluence was certainly luxurious and opulent, it lacked the feeling of pure preserved history which permeated in the air of the Phoenix Palace, being only 80 turns old, rather than a millennia old.

As he always had when walking by it, Alistair took a moment to stop and admire the masterfully painted work which featured one of his most distant ancestors, Faustus Suttbray, the first Head of House Suttbray and the original King of Everfield. The scene depicted Faustus Suttbray, a relatively average-looking Suthi farmer, clad in work clothing and out on his field, sword in hand. He held the blade, Lamentation, aloft, not truly fighting with it but holding it almost as if it were a torch. The blade gleamed fiercely in the sun, and the painter had depicted barely visible waves of what was seemingly visible sound in the air, to try to properly illustrate how the farmer was using the weapon. Meanwhile, on the other side of the painting, a great emerald Wyrm appeared to be thrashing against a cliff in agony, despite the fact that no force was harrying him. The Wyrm was Sirrij, bringer of flame and famine, an infamous figure in the history of Everfield who had singlehandedly burned down nearly all of trees in the region, making it flat and shorn forevermore, and turned good folks' fields to ash, if the tale was to be believed.

Many brave warriors had stood up to the great Wyrm to no avail, as he incinerated any who came within an arrow's reach of him in seconds. The beast was supposedly untouchable, and so no mundane weapon could slay him, for how was one supposed to kill something he could not touch or loose an arrow at? Faustus held the answer within his hands, the screaming blade of the Star Maiden, Lamentation. With it, he had sent a great wave of anguish and sound towards the Wyrm, and the beast had apparently writhed and thrashed until the his oily black blood ran out of his ears, eyes, and mouth, and he died due to his exposure to the holy scream sword. Afterwards, the Suthi had bent their knees to Faustus, the simple farmer blessed with steel from the heavens, and he accepted the great burden of leadership. The man had turned a countless fields of ash into one of the most prosperous and fertile corners of the realm to date, and created the values which all good Suthi abide by today- be a simple, decent man, work hard, and love you neighbor as you would love your son.

Alistair could only admire the painting for so long though, and eventually had to move on to the audience chamber. As he approached, he realized that most, if not all of the other Kings of the Realm had already arrived. They seemed to be participating in their usual antics, making deals and threats, trading insults and praise, hatching plots and boasting of various feats. The Summit which they had all showed for was seemingly a ways away, and at this time the Kings seemed to be milling about and exchanging pleasantries and hollow words. Alistair made a motion with his hand and one member of the southron party, the same giant Wilharnese individual who had spoken to the small-folk in the streets just within the gates of Skyhaven, stepped forward to stand to Alistair Suttbray's right. The giant took a deep breath before he spoke in the same deep drawl he had used earlier, marking him clearly as a man of the Roanwater.

"All welcome His Perfection Alistair of House Suttbray, King of Everfield and Wilharne."

The big man stepped aside, and moved a beefy arm towards Alistair with a flourish, presenting him to the other assembled lords. The man was known as the Smiling Fox by small-folk and petty lords alike for obvious reasons, namely the man's omnipresent smile. The King's wide, white smile seemed genuine enough, though one would soon learn to doubt that if they spent enough time around Alistair, as this smile never left his face. It had a vulpine cast to it, which was appropriate, all things considered, and seemed to hint at a sly demeanor, as if the King knew something omnipotent and would let no-one in on it. His hair, which was a dark golden tone common amongst the Suttbrays, fell to his shoulders, brushing them with golden waves. His eyes were a warm, honest brown-gold color though they too had a sly, vulpine cast to them. His face was all angles, again not dissimilar to that of a fox, and his high cheekbones, arching eyebrows, and pointed chin gave off a distinctly aristocratic impression.

The man was built to be a warrior, that much was plain, though he was more bone than muscle now due to his inability to exercise for extended periods of time without being wracked by his dreaded cough. He stood taller than most, though not as tall as some, at an even six feet, and he was long-limbed and broad of shoulder as a southron knight should be. His aforementioned apparel was certainly regal, with his summer cloak of red fox skin remaining astride his shoulders despite the inside environment. After being addressed, the King of the Twin Kingdoms drew himself up tall and took a deep breath... only to have it expelled sharply due to the pain in his chest. His old jousting injury was acting up again, and his terrible cough troubled him even now. The Smiling Fox deftly found and extracted his kerchief from his breast-pocket, a plainly practiced motion, and proceeded to cough bloody phlegm into it. The southron lord continued to cough for a good few moments before he was finally able to regain composure and don his facade of surety and strength once more, speaking softly and politely in his cultured Roanwater drawl.

"Excuse me, my lords, my apologies."