Alistair Suttbray
70th of Zieliah, 698 Years After Unification

Tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air of the small room, limned by soft rays of lamp-born light. This smoke, which drifted around the room in languid clouds, seemed to lend the room a sense of tranquility which was hard to attain through other means. Neutral-colored walls surrounded the lone occupant of the chamber on all sides, bedecked with masterfully made paintings depicting some of the more notable individuals who had held the title Keeper of Kingdoms. Near the center of the room an ebon-colored desk made its home, well-polished and gleaming with a dark beauty of its own. Around this desk three chairs were arrayed, all of them of fine make and each one being rather comfortable-looking. Two of them were seemingly identical, carved of dark wood and upholstered with fine red silk, and neither held an occupant. The third, which was much higher-backed and upholstered with golden silk rather than crimson, was occupied, bearing the weight of the room's single resident.

The occupant of said chair was Alistair Suttbray, King of Everfield and Wilharne, Keeper of Kingdoms, though most knew him as the 'Smiling Fox'. Here, hidden within his private study which sat adjacent to the rest of the Keeper's apartments, Alistair enjoyed some respite from the eyes of the other denizens of the Phoenix Palace, noble or otherwise. His posture, which was usually made painstakingly perfect in all ways observable, had been relaxed a bit. He slumped in his chair, his legs stretched out far in front of him, tucked beneath the bulk of the desk. A small fire set within a hearth just behind him worked to simultaneously warm and light the room, making the smoke-laden air glow warmly with cheerful light. Alistair had shed his fine garments in favor of more comfortable wear, now clad in dark trousers of southron cotton and a white undershirt of thin linen adorned with silver buttons. He feet were bare, devoid of boots and stockings alike, and his toes were spread wide over the fine eastern carpet which sat atop the ancient floors of cold marble. 

With one hand he held his ebon-colored pipe, which was presently emitting a hot red glow which accompanied a constant stream of light smoke. Meanwhile, with his other hand he twirled a dry quill absently, thinking about what it was he should transcribe with it. Before him, on the great desk of dark wood, sprawled a great many tomes, accounts, and letters. Paperwork all of it, some of the papers were legal inquiries while others were pieces of official correspondence with Lords and judges alike. He had spent the last couple of days getting his affairs back in order after his reelection, business which consisted mostly of appointing lawmen to positions which they had already held before the events of the Summit. The business was rather prosaic in nature, but formalities had to be upheld. Finally though, he had apparently completed the work set before him, and could move on to some more personal business.

He drew a piece of his personal paper from the drawer of the heavy desk set before him. It was an expensive sort, imported from Ashishia and imbued with a fine perfume reminiscent of the smell of coffee. He laid the paper out before him on the top of the desk, smoothing it out and enjoying the feel of the lightly textured material beneath his hand as he did so. He then set his quill down on top of the paper, retrieving a small bottle of ink from yet another drawer within the desk, all the while keeping his burning pipe resting comfortably in his hand. With the ink sitting on his desk uncapped, he picked up his quill once again and dipped it into the thick substance, tapping twice on the side of the bottle in a habitual matter before turning the quill towards the paper to begin writing.

[i] My dearest brother Augustus, who I love dearly, I write this today to confirm that I will indeed be staying in the Phoenix Palace for the time being, as I have been re-appointed Keeper of Kingdoms. In light of this event, I would like to ask you to continue ruling as my surrogate in Confluence, as is expected from the Grand Castellan of Everfield and Wilharne. I trust your judgement in matters of governance above anyone else's, and believe that you will continue to keep order in my great Kingdoms. Take good care of our people, particularly your niece and nephew, if you would, and remember our Words, for they offer good council.

On another note, I would to ask that you send our sweet sister Josephine northward, to join me at the Phoenix Palace in Skyhaven. I have a feeling that I will need good, loyal advisors about my person now more than ever, and can think of no one better to lend me aid on our travels than Josephine. Send her north via ship with a retinue of fine southron knights which you think are up to the task, and give each of them two horses which are fleet-of-foot. If I am absent when she arrives, than it is likely that I have been sent hither or tither by our knew Lord Regent and will not be back at the Palace for some time. If that ends up being the case, let her know that she is welcome to use the apartments of the Keeper of Kingdoms until I return to this cliff-clinging city. 

I will bid you farewell now, as I know that you fancy yourself a man who requires few words to be satisfied. I trust that you will manage our House and its realms admirably, dear brother of mine. [/i]

With the brief letter written he leaned back in his chair, satisfied with it. His brother was indeed a man of few words, seeming to prefer silence to conversation. Still, despite his gross lack of etiquette, Augustus was indeed a fine administrator and good enough man, if a little gruff and blunt. In truth, though, the true nature of the letter, and by far the most important part of it in Alistair's eyes, was the request for Josephine to join him. He and Josephine had always been close, closer than two individuals usually ever tended to be. His sister was not just a blood relative or a pawn on the political game board, she was his closest friend, his most trusted advisor, his personal voice of reason. They had been close since birth, and though he was a full turn and a half older than her, she had always played the part of big sister. While Alistair had spent his youth getting into trouble, she had spent hers getting him out of it, and if he was being completely honest, that trend never stopped after childhood.

Yes, he needed his sister with him now more than ever, he was sure of that. Things were changing within the Realm, and not for the better, he thought. While he did not fancy himself one of those far-seers from the East, even he felt something cold in the air, both in the physical and metaphorical sense. The deep snows were coming to Elyden, and with them strife and suffering for all who did not keep their wits about them. Winter was a terrible thing, by all accounts, and Josephine had gone through great lengths to convey to Alistair just how terrible the situation would be if just a single harvest was wiped out by winter's frost. The South could survive of its stores for a year or two, for a certainty, but exports to the other Kingdoms would have to be halted in their entirety. Thousands of smallfolk would starve, and the legendary grain stores of Everfield would become prime targets to the hungry peasants and ambitious Lords alike. Then, if winter were to go on much longer than a turn, or perhaps two, the South itself, who was legendary for its plenty, would succumb to starvation, and the continent would lose nearly 700 years of progress, all because of some cold wind and a bit of snow. 

Just thinking of the possibility filled Alistair with dread- a flat, tasteless, and frigid feeling. On top of the winter, the High King was gone, and a Lord Regent now ruled the Realm, which never turned out well, if the old tomes told their tales truthfully. The real players in this great game had already started to show themselves it seemed, chief among them his kinsman-by-law and subsequent ally, James Conrad. He liked the man little, though he could not truly say why, for some odd reason. The man was blunt in his mannerisms certainly, but then again so was his brother Augustus, and he still loved the man. No, it was something else, something that went deeper than etiquette. Still, he ought to not pass judgement on those who he truly knew little of, especially considering his current office and its demand for an unbiased point of view.

The Keeper of Kingdoms, and holder of two of them himself, pondered this as he brought his ebon pipe to his lips, taking a smooth, soothing drag from it. He closed his eyes blissfully, enjoying the smoke and its entirely unique properties. A moment or two later, the High Lord exhaled the wondrous smoke from his nose in a slow, steady stream for no real reason. When the Smiling Fox went for a second drag, however, the process of inhalation didn't really agree with his ruined chest, and the Lord instead was thrown into a fit of violent, racking coughs. The act broke the tranquil silence of the room, and made the smoke which resided in it hurry quickly away from Alistair's mouth-born gales. This cough was much more violent than those which Alistair experienced in public, as when he was surrounded by peers and servants alike he used every bit strength he could muster up to combat this dreaded ailment, but just now he couldn't be bothered enough to try to keep his composure.

Before too long, though, the episode got out of hand, and Alistair became panicked. He could not suck in enough air, for it was all being exhaled immediately upon arrival. His chest screamed with white pain, pure and brilliant in its cruelty, and blood-laced spittle ran down his aristocratically-built chin in a most undignified fashion. It was only natural, of course, that he soon fell out of his silken, high-backed chair right onto the expensive Eastern carpet. The fall sent a wave of pain over him, as he had landed upon his back and it had rattled his chest in a rather painful way. Though it seemed impossible before due to the sheer lack of air within his lungs, Alistair somehow managed to emit a rather pathetic scream, so great was the pain which now assailed him. He lay there, spasming for a few good moments before the doors burst open with a force so strong that it slammed into the wall which it was mounted on and the hinges groaned with distress.

Seconds later a pair of strong, rough hands took hold of him and held him aloft, quickly plopping him back down into his seat. A rag, much rougher and less fine than his own black silk kerchief, was held up to his mouth in an attempt to stay his coughing. While it did little to actually stop the coughing, the gesture was comforting anyway, helped by the presence of a reassuring hand which was placed upon his back. The blonde-headed King continued to spasm with his hair for a few more moments still, though now he found himself firmly secured to it. Finally, a moment of respite came, and the Keeper was able to keep a full breath of air in. Immediately he spoke, his cultured, sing-song accent replaced by a pain-ridden gravely tone and his fine mannerisms entirely forgotten.

"Wine!"

Immediately, the other man who had been helping him bolted off, running through the open doorway into Alistair's finely furnished den and moving through yet another door. Meanwhile, the Smiling Fox, who currently wasn't smiling in the least, held tightly to his chair and attempted a series of calm, steady breaths, trying to stabilize his breathing. In a few moments the man, Sir Harrisane Branch, burst into the room, wineskin in hand. He handed it to Alistair rather unceremoniously, whereupon the King brought it to his lips and proceeded to take one long, steady gulp after another. The wine was sour and unpleasant on his tongue, tasting nothing like the fine sothron red or Aglilbloom that his palate was used to, for it was surely the wine of the common man. Still though, the wine offered a bit of sweet reprieve from the dastardly episode, and Alistair savored its lukewarm wetness and numbing properties. After a few long, savage swings from the skin he handed it back weakly to Harrisane, and looked up at him.

Most knew Sir Harrisane Branch simply as Stronglance, a name which he had earned fairly at the many tourneys which he had attended in his lifetime. He was a tall man, for a certainty, standing well over six feet tall and handling himself as any large man was wont to do. Despite the fact that he had seen just over forty turns, he had a martial look about him, and was heavily built with strong muscles and stout bones. His face was not a pretty one, with his features being much too beefy to let him appear to be of noble birth, but his brown eyes were honest and his smile was endearing. On top of this, he was not a smart man either, though he knew his letters well enough and could perform all manner of practical tasks if asked. Presently, he was garbed in a mundane raiment of mail and white woolen clothes, largely indistinguishable from any other common guard.

Despite this however, Stronglance was a well-known figure in the South, not only because he command Alistair Suttbray's personal guard, but also because he had been the one to plant his lance in Alistair's chest all those years ago. It had been an accident, for a certainty, and afterwards the man, not yet a kumen, had stayed by Alistair's side while he remained bed-bound. He had struck Alistair so masterfully that even in full plate and with a blunted lance he had nearly killed the then-Prince. The young man had made a recovery through, and afterwards Harrisane had pledge his allegiance to Alistair directly, swearing that he would ensure no harm ever came to him again. He did his job well, and had stayed by the Smiling Fox's side ever since that event thirteen long years ago. He was a good soldier and a good friend, though he could be a bit daft at times, as was evidenced by the exclamation he gave.

"Al, m'lord, are you dying? Don't die m'lord, don't die!"

The brute did this every time Alistair was thrown into one of his coughing fits, which was at least four or five times a fortnight. It was endearing, sure, but it could be rather annoying at times as well, with one of those times being now. Not feeling up to the challenge of speaking, he fluttered his hand dismissively, assuring Stronglance that he wouldn't die. He sat there for a while longer, taking shaky breaths and sitting up a bit straighter in the chair. He then reached into his trouser pocket, locating his black silk kerchief, and extracted it. The Keeper proceeded to wipe his chin with the kerchief, cleaning it of blood and spittle. Finally settled, he longed for his pipe, and looked all about for it. Finally he located it, upended on the fine eastern carpet across the room. He had flung it away during his fit, apparently, and it now sat out of his reach. The Lord pointed towards it weakly, nodding while he did so, and it didn't take long for Stronglance to catch on and make his way to the location, bending over and plucking it out of the fine carpet gingerly.

The kumen brought the pipe back, setting it on Alistair's desk bowl-up in an attempt to not spill the remainder of its contents all over the Keeper's official documents. But the action was in vain, for he had managed to cough copious amounts of blood onto the papers set before him. The dry bone-colored paper an midnight black ink was now speckled with dots of chest-born crimson liquid. All of the papers were ruined, two entire days of dispassionate work and an aching wrist for naught.

"Damn it all. This cough will be the death of me, for a certainty."