[center][h3][color=aba000]Ar Rathmore[/color][/h3][/center] 
[center][i](At the table near the King. Prospering in the open sunlight and air.)[/i][/center]
Ar looked forward to seeing the showing of each house at the tourney. He watched eagerly from his own seat at the table of the King’s honored guests, gazing upon the armors tailored made by the hands of dozens of different competing blacksmiths. Competition was at the essence of the day. He liked to see that too, people striving to overtake each other. [color=aba000][b]“I hope the Northmen weren’t eaten by bears in a blizzard before they could mount their horses to ride here, but it would be typical of them.”[/b][/color] He laughed uproariously as he was known to at a gathering. The lion of a Spymaster had his claws entirely sheathed and was in a gay mood. Tunics were acceptable losses as a lesser born lord frowned at a growing red stain near his neck. Ar loved the sun striking the Windkeep, baking the old stone and helping each person in attendance sweat away their troubles whether they happened to be physically exerting themselves or not. [color=aba000][b]"I'm glad to be among the fortunate few in linens on a day set to roast us like this one."[/b][/color]

The red stain called Ar’s thoughts momentarily back with a strong flavor of deja vu. The morning of the tourney he and his wife had woken to find their daughter distraught, since she had had her first blood spill onto the sheets during the night. He shared his eyes with his lady Rathmore now at the table, and took her hand firmly, taking her elbow closer to his own. He wanted to share his confidence with her that both of their children would be all right no matter the changes to come to them.