"[i][b]Too hot....[/b][/i]" 

It was always too hot for Sikarthis. The food was too hot, the wine was too hot, even the candles lighting the hall were too hot. He hadn't been allowed to strip down to just his pants as he always did during the Off-Winter season. '[i]Rude[/i]' they called it, saying it would [i]offend the Queen[/i]. That annoyed Sikarthis of course. A true ruler would hardly care what others wore and even if they did they would make a point of saying so themselves instead of having others do it for them. In the end he had relented, but only after Gnarl had spent the better part of an hour distracting him from his martial practice about it. 

At least it had been easy to separate himself from the rest of the men and women of the Company during the feast. The slaves and servants had hardly cared when he cleared a cluttered bench near the main doors, though he received no end of odd looks concerning his appearance. Sikarthis didn't fault them for their curiosity, after all most of the Southerners were rather plain to look at and even he had difficulty putting a name to faces he had spent the past two Winters not conversing with. With his intricate body piercing, dark blue tattoos, and the Ustynian clothing wore he stood out like a frostbitten limb. Thankfully with drink flowing like a freshly thawed river and the bedmaids giving their favors away to most of the men Sikarthis went largely unnoticed after those initial glances. 

Observing his fellow mercenaries (or perhaps that would be [b]ex[/b]-mercenaries now that they had officially joined with the Queen), Sikarthis made little effort to partake in the feast. After his first glass of wine (too hot) and a mouthful of some foul tasting Southern bird (too hot) he had elected to ignore any trays offered his way, turning away servants and slaves with a disinterested stare until they went on to more receptive members of the Company. By the time Gnarl decided that it was time for a speech Sikarthis had grown tired and irritable. He was out of the hall and halfway to his bed before that ridiculously hideous golden sword had entered the Queen's hands.

---

It had, [i]of course[/i], been too hot to sleep properly. For several hours before his companions had wandered into the hall that housed their beds, each in various states of inebriation (these Southerners could hardly hold their drinks he was reminded yet again), Sikarthis had lain awake atop his bare cot, naked as the day he was born and still sweating more than he liked. He could never understand how these Southerners could craft bedsheets that were too thin to keep out a breeze and yet too hot all at the same time. No matter the position or how deeply he meditated sleep eluded Sikarthis, the hunger in his stomach and the heat driving away all hope of getting a decent nights rest. Even after his companions had arrived and passed out, one after another, Sikarthis lay awake and irritated. 

 '[i][b]Perhaps I should go make use of the training yard while it is empty[/b][/i]', he thought to himself after the night had all but passed, dawn rearing it's ugly head. This would mark the sixth night in a month that he had gained no sleep. He made a mental note to see the Company physician before noon about a sleeping remedy. '[i][b]But first[/b][/i]', he mused, '[i][b]the practice yard.[/b][/i]'

Just as he was about to rise and retrieve his longsword and shield from the crates next to his cot however, Gnarl burst into the hall, calling his Companions by name and rousing them from their (no doubt enjoyable) dreams. By the time Gnarl had arrived at his bed Sikarthis was already pulling on his pants and shirt, kicking open the lid of the crate that held his ancestral armour. It seemed he might be getting his practice after all, albeit with an actual opponent as opposed to several strawmen on sticks. Despite having been awake long before his companions it took far longer to slide into his armour than was necessary. Spying a young pageboy, he had enlisted the lads help with a barked order. Unfortunately the lad's fingers were clumsy and attaching piece after piece of the unique armour took twice as long as it should have. Eventually though the lad finished, Sikarthis looking over the bindings until he was satisfied that he would not find himself suddenly naked in the middle of a melee.

Snatching his full helm from the unresisting hands of the boy he strode out of the hall towards the gatehouse, his armour hardly clinking as he made his way forward as gracefully as his prized snowcats moved through the deepest snowbanks. Along the way he passed several of his companions, some of the few he had made an effort to recognize in his time with the Company. There was Astrid, the fiery younger woman who always reminded him of a Snowcat that was seconds away from fight or flight. Speaking to her was the one called Joachim whom Sikarthis had often sparred with. He was promising swordsman though he had yet to land more than grazing blows against Sikarthis in all of their practicing. Wren he came upon a few moments later, his eyes lingering on her longer than the two before. She had always raised curiosity inside Sikarthis, though he could not tell why. He often felt that she was being somehow false with him in the few conversations he had had with her. He had become annoyingly good at noticing such things after his role in the Company had come to include being a receptacle for complaining and things that needed saying but never repeating.

Eventually arriving at the gatehouse, Sikarthis took up a position in a corner, out of the way of the rising bustle and unlikely to be bothered by anyone passing by. Halfheartedly examining the 'death mask' visage of his helm and waiting patiently for orders, Sikarthis felt the all too familiar dampness begin to rise on the back of his neck. 

"[i][b]Too hot...[/b][/i]"