After his trial, Keys was imprisoned for three days. On the third day he was released, given back his equipment and horse, and was bound to the Black Shields for seven years. It was a merciful sentence considering many others would have simply been beheaded, and that was not lost on Keys.

In some way, small and hidden away deep in Keys’ boot, he was excited. His first battle he’d fought against Cherwinian scum at Witches’ Crest. After a Broacien victory he’d watched the Cherwin king cut down King Tristan in single combat, in what the Northerners would call [b][i]‘holmgang’[/i][/b]. Keys never forgave King Tristan for dying, and he never forgave Cherwin for killing him.

As he plodded through the murky forests of his home, avoiding the bogs more by instinct than wisdom, his thin, rose-gray gelding bobbed it’s head to and fro. Occasionally the horse would pause, bending down to nibble at a particularly delicious looking patch of moss. While not the best habit for a horse to have, Keys didn’t mind. The horse was bound to have some hard days coming up.

Atop the horse, Keys yawned. He was a big man, dressed in brown breeches and a dull red doublet. A dinged breastplate glinted from underneath a weathered honey-yellow cloak. He shifted in the saddle, desperately searching for a more comfortable position. The knight had been alone on the road for two days, and while many in Murkran would call that suicide, Keys preferred it that way. Murkran was home, and he was familiar with terrain. He kept an eye out for bandits of course, but no Cherwin dog could make a stealthy approach in these swamps without alerting Keys. It was something about the way they walked. And the way they smelled. And the way they breathed.

The meandering horse huffed as it sloshed though a murky puddle and Keys returned the huff, jerking his head up and scanning the trees. He knew he would be at the encampment by dusk, and considering his pace, maybe even later. So seeing a thin line of smoke ahead of him piqued his interest. 

“[b]Whoa, Frisco[/b].” He whispered, pulling up on the reins. Frisco halted and blinked, turning his pale head to Keys. The knight dismounted, quietly splashing into the soft mud below. He tossed the reins over a low branch and pulled his heavy gray sword from the bedroll strapped to his saddle. This sword wasn’t a showy blade that many of the city folk flaunted. This was a tool. A dull gray bastard sword with modest crossguard, leather hilt, and rounded pommel, it was meant for killing, not showing. He dipped past Frisco, pausing to pat the young horse’s head.

[b]“Keep an eye out.”[/b]

The horse shook his hand away and gnawed on some hanging moss. Keys picked his way through the marsh slowly, nestling himself against a tree as the woodline cleared ahead. Peeking from behind the tree he saw a wooden palisade that stood in the clearing, and the fortification looked manned. These weren’t the King’s men, certainly, though he knew they must be close. And they couldn't be Cherwinian, Keys would have smelled them.

[i]Outlaws, mostlike. Poor bastards picked a bad spot to squat.[/i]

It was only a matter of time until the Black Shields found the bandits. Then they’d either kill them or force them into service, like he had been. He rolled his back to the tree and gave a slight shrug. He’d have to report this activity once he reached the camp. Pushing off the tree, he sneakily began his hike back to his horse.