Urik reclined uncomfortably in his sear, fingers turning over and over again a small piece of parchment which had been discreetly passed along to him. Pausing, he slipping the tiny furl open to once again read its contents before returning to his previous course of flipping the document over repeatedly. What had just occurred was truly unfortunate, a grave error on the part of all involved. Plots had been set into motion preemptively and as a result they were now quickly spiraling out of his control. The note in Urik's hand contained information related to the assassination attempt which had, not just a number of days ago been enacted against the life of Duke Gregor. Obviously if it was ever discovered that he had become involved in such a plot his life and property would have become forfeit. Luckily enough the attempt had failed in such a spectacular fashion as to actually prove advantageous: all of the men who knew about it were now dead. And by the Duke's hand no less.

Giving a heavy sigh the accountant reached across his desk for a nearby candle, lifting the flame to the parchment, burning all evidence of his involvement. For some the failure of the first attempt would have left them smarting, perhaps it would have even inspired a bit of fear in them. What would happen the next time? For Urik it simply meant that the next attempt would need to be leveraged with considerably more gusto. The good marquis was not the only man involved in the plot. On the contrary there were political constituents across the borders in the Iron Hills which would have benefited equally from the death of the new lord. They were Urik's sometimes collaborators, though, in all fairness it was not as if the marquis did not have his hand in more than a dozen other controversial jars, not the least of which were the Forklands, Whiteland's long time allies.

Yes, Urik had decided. Gregor would have to be stopped regardless of the imminent political danger such an action might cause. The last time he'd chosen stupid soldiers who were just as happy to kill a noble for a couple of coins as a commoner. He had been relying on their commonality to provide them a good deal of surprise. Now the Duke knew that someone was attempting against his life, now the marquis could freely call upon more insidious and efficient organizations. . .

[center][i]The Forklands[/i][/center]

Valeria leaned back a little in her saddle, the shift in weight aimed principally in alleviating her buttocks of the ache of so many miles of riding. The purpose and goal of her journey was simple; she'd set out from the Iron Hills after her latest round of conquests intent now of finally finding a master worthy of her considerable skills. She was young to be sure, but that did not stop her from possessing an overflowing confidence that continually spurned her onward to greater and greater things. With a soft jab to the flanks of her trusty mount, Lowen, the knight approached the center of the sprawling Forklands capital. 

Today Valeria had deigned to remain without the aide of her armor, without the additional tons it seemed to add to her weight, the further burden of many pounds of steel and iron on a ride of many hours. Instead she dressed commonly, adorned in garments that made her appear as more a middle-class merchant's daughter than a mighty and noble feudal warrior. The change in clothing suited her fancy, at least this way she would not be bombarded by constant pleas to handle this or that problem on the way to her meeting with the duke of the realm; she needed to keep her finest clothes for parties regardless.

Upon approaching the castle gates the guards there demanded her dismount and the knight willingly obliged, producing for the hesitant men her patents of nobility. At first the guards were skeptical, though, under some pressure form her threats and the weight of the classist caste system in which they lived Valeria was able to successfully bluff her way through the gates. Once inside she met dutifully with the castle steward and was assigned quarters according to her station. Throughout the hall her cunning eyes spied the traces and personages of other knights and squires-in-waiting, yes, this was the place she could truly make her name.