Baron Favrin didn't lounge, but it was the closest he would ever be. He propped his feet upon his desk as he stared up at the lofty ceiling. A letter was tossed carelessly upon the ground, crumpled and quite torn. From Favrin's left hand a bottle of spirits dangled, empty. A cowed servant huddled near the door, not daring to be fully in the room but in fear of actually leaving. Another two servants waited outside the door, ready to spring into any action required of them. The whole household was silent. No one dared utter a word over a whisper. 

The only soul who dared Favrin's wrath was his mother. Of course she had retired hours ago to mourn in her own way. For usually a letter from Favrin's son Corbin was a joyous thing. For all of the house shared Favrin's fears that his eldest son would die in battle and each letter was a sure sign of life. It was when the letters stopped arriving that grief would be upon them. So none had suspected when the letter showed what grief would follow. So far none but the Elder Dutchess and the Baron knew what was the cause. But the servants could guess. Someone died. Not Corbin, since he penned the letter. Was it one of the nephews or worse? The brother, the Duke? For it couldn't be the King. Such a matter of vital importance couldn't have been carried over by a lowly Knight, no matter that he might be a Baron one day.

When the second missive arrived by the Duke's Black Crows, the servants stepped even lighter. The new letter was delivered by trembling hands to the Baron. He took it, read over it, dismissed all servants. He didn't emerge until the next day. Favrin had aged years in those few hours. New lines crossed his face and his hair looked even more grey than it had been.

"[color=9e0b0f]Prepare my horse![/color]" Favron shouted. "[color=9e0b0f]Fetch a bath, prepare my riding things![/color]"

Servants parted in his wake. People scurried this way and that. Each intent on their task. Their master was going. They had to make ready. Everyone knew their dance and they were efficient. By the time the Baron was dressed and ready, so were they. The servants prided themselves on anticipating his every need. Five men were ready to ride. Each one chosen because of their loyalty, and because if their master needed defending, they'd do it. They all sensed the coming turmoil. Rapid change was never good in the Whitelands.

The Baron and his entourage arrived at the Duke's castle. Favrin tossed off his riding cloak, letting it fall to the ground. He made it off his stallion before his first servant was able to rush over and assist him. He ran a hand over his wind mussed hair. His long strides ate the ground and men moved to let him passed. Everyone knew what he was here for. His first stop was to see Joakim, his nephew, the Lord Regent. Without any fanfare he dropped to his knee and pledged his loyalty. He'd do it once again with everyone to see, but for now this would do.

"[color=9e0b0f]My nephew. My Sword, my Honor, and my Life are yours.[/color]" Favrin briefly thought that he was too old to be kneeling on stone, but he didn't rise until released. "[color=9e0b0f]I am ever at your disposal.[/color]"

The Baron's next stop was to comfort his sister-in-law, the still beautiful Catryn, even marred by grief. Together the two mourned for a man they both loved. It made it clear he was there for not only the Dutchess, but for Joakim too. 

The week passed excruciatingly slow. Yet the day the rulers assembled under the duke's halls passed far too quickly. Favrin had chosen his best court clothes and stood attendance near Joakim. But not too near. Joakim had to do this himself. Favrin wouldn't weaken his nephew's rule. So it was when the boy struggled he stood impassively, despite some of the looks the other Baron and Marquis gave him. [i]Why do you not support your family?[/i] The looks demanded. Yet Favrin stood immovable. Only once did he move. It was only once, and no one noticed for they were all staring at Joakim as he delivered news of the death of the Duke. Favrin had looked up breifly in askance of God? Or to keep tears at bay?

When it came time to swear oaths Favrin was second after Lord Erik, Lord bless the man. 

"[color=9e0b0f]I so swear.[/color]" Favrin saluted his nephew and hoped the boy knew he was proud of him. And that his father must be too in Heaven. Then came the dire news. He cast his eyes over the assembled men and marked those who weren't surprised by the news. For Favrin was not the only many with ears in far off places. Nor even the only one watching the every move of the Lord Regent, as he now was. Still Favrin inhaled sharply. The men around him began to began to talk over one another. Some angry, some afraid. They clumped together as soon as it was obvious that Joakim would not add anything more to his dire speech.

Favrin listened as the men talked around him. A few looked over at him, but none readily approached him yet. He had sworn allegiance, but some suspected duplicity. Men however approached Joakim to talk to him. Most were still unhappy as they walked away. But trust would come with time. Time though, they might not have. With the new news of Northermoat being captured the mood turned decidedly unpleasant. Yet, if Favrin had to judge, most, if not all in the hall at the moment would stand with the Lord Regent. But that would change upon Lord Perris of Harrighfield's arrival. 

Slowly the men trickled out of the hall. Favrin lingered waiting to be alone with his nephew. It was nice that the nephew desired the same of him.

[b]Uncle, I feel like it might be worthwile to have you come with me to Northermoat. Please join me and ser Volkov.[/b]

"[color=9e0b0f]Of course my Lord.[/color]" Favrin bowed to his nephew. Then was dismissed. Favrin didn't begrudge the boy his space. There would be enough time to talk upon horseback. Out of the hall he motioned his man and sent him off. They weren't quite prepared for this, but they adapted quickly. By the time Favrin reached the stables, his horse was ready and so was he properly attired for riding. In his bags was no doubt his armour and his men's also. They might not have planned to ride off to battle, but they had planned.