[center][h2][color=1E90FF]Sigurd Lear[/color][/h2][/center]

The young man was astonished by how much the Windkeep had changed since his last visitation. [color=1E90FF][b]Sigurd Lear[/b][/color], like his family, seldom left their home in the North, and so when House Lear accepted an invitation to an event of sorts that was outside of their natural boundaries, it was taken seriously by the other regions. He had been thirteen years of age when he rode for the Windkeep with his own convoy, a longtime tradition in a Lear boy's path in coming of age.

His horse whined as it scuttled alongside his father, at the head of their party. Sigurd kept to himself, casting a sideways glance as they rode into the capital of Estiala. As with the Southern major house, they were met with the adoration of the Western natives, who had filed themselves in long pockets of population to lay eyes upon House Lear.

He was relatively undisturbed by the length of their trip, to which Joane and Isla seemed to dislike very much greatly. As Northmen and the paragons of their region, it was in their blood to remain robust and stout; at least, for Sigurd, that was how the young man had to present himself, as his father stressed. There would be no qualms for complaining when the winds of winter would come.

Sigurd set his shoulders straight, his eyes remaining to the side. [color=1E90FF][b]"The King cordially invited us to attend his festival,[/b][/color] he reminded Joane as she addressed their father. [color=1E90FF][b]"A gathering of the three regions has not occurred for over fifty years. It is the greatest honor for the Northmen."[/b][/color]

When the faces of the common folk were replaced by ones of familiarity, more or less, House Lear and its bannermen found themselves at the Windkeep in its palatial greatness. Attended by the servants and squires of House Rathmore, they were relieved of their horses, advising Ulfar Lear and the Northern lords to make haste for the tournament grounds where King Soren Rathmore awaited their arrival.

While Isla and Joane sat themselves at a bench to recuperate themselves from the fortnight of travel, Sigurd kept to his father's side, his face almost one of sadness. As much as the festival of the three regions was meant to be a week of refreshment and celebration, the boy knew of the capital's despair.

The only heir to the King, Archer Rathmore, had been the first of the crown's three children to survive a series of deadly illness, and now at the age of nine, Archer Rathmore was on the brink of suffering from his siblings' same fate. It made Sigurd think, of how many years in his youth had been claimed by the pox, but for the King of such old age to have no true heirs, no true son or daughter to hold?

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[center][h2][color=DAA520]Rufus Santer[/color][/h2][/center]

As a young man of self-proclaimed above-average intelligence, Rufus sighed once in relief as he had finally triumphed over the she-devils of the brothel in their desire to keep him within their establishment, in their company. He found himself tumbling along the stairwell, clumsily ensuring that his sword would not fall from his hip and lead the squire to a tale for the crown's jester.

When Rufus stumbled out of the scandalous establishment, he was quick to close the door behind him as he threw a hand down the top of his head, keeping his shaggy brown hair from ruffling any further. One of the whores gestured from the window above while he scratched his backside, letting out a stretch for the glory of the gods.

In the midst of his yawn, Rufus found an older man showing a respectful gesture towards the wall, seeing as it was towards Jaelyn Ralei. [color=DAA520][b]"Oh,"[/b][/color] the squire looked between the two of them, trotting towards his princess. He proceeded to scratch the side of his face, smiling. [color=DAA520][b]"Lady Lyn, may I ask why you are not with Lord Ralei?"[/b][/color]