[center][h3]Lord Jerran Gades Stolt[/h3][/center]

[i]The fate of King Timault was still yet unknown when Lord Jerran Gades Stolt returned to Thunderhall, that single bastion overlooking the wild reaches of the South. Osterias frontier was more than scrubland, desert and waste-it held the ruins of an ancient era, and the blood of generations of Stolt men spilt by the foul orcs of the Blackmouth Clan. Creatures summoned from the very pits of hell, black fanged and cruel, with yellow eyes and bubbling muscles that wielded weapons more akin to a butchers than a civil knights. Under orders from the late King Timault himself, Lord Stolt led a cadre of crack troops against the flank of the horde in an attempt at a feint. The Kings army was to deal a decisive blow to the enemy right in the center. In truth, Jerran Stolt did not believe the tactic would work. It was a strategy that might persevere against a civilized army, where rows upon row of knights in polished armor waited for the order to advance. But the orcs of Blackmouth Their ranks were amorphous, and deceiving. Where fifty orcs appeared, their may have been 500 lying in wait or ambush. But Lord Stolts duty was to follow orders, not contradict them. He had parted at dawn with the King and his host not knowing it would be the last time he spoke to his liege lord.[/i]

Lord Jerran Gades Stolt entered the chambers of the council garbed in the black and tan cloak of the Knights of the Southern Reach. He wore upon his neck a black scarf of mourning, still covered in the silty dust of his homeland. Hidden beneath this scarf was the necklace of black orc tusks that Stolt refused to remove. On his hip was the blade of his father, a curved scimitar with a simple hilt and pommel, an amalgamation of the Orcish blades and the civilized weapons of the kingdom of Osteria. He was a warrior, hardened by life on the frontier, and he felt uncomfortable the moment he and his men entered the metropolitan city of Tythmas, with its endless walls and windmills and storied buildings. 

Stolt arrived later than his fellow noblemen, left his cloak and scimitar with his retainers and entered the lavish meeting hall. He could not help but stare in wonder at the feast sprawled before the men-his people rarely if ever dined with such fine foods. [i]Gods...that must be cheese,[/i] thought Lord Stolt. 

Lord Marek, of the order of Silk & Iron was presiding, and it appeared that a discussion was already underway. Most of these men Stolt had never met, and as he took a seat among the most powerful men in the kingdom he considered what he would add to the discussion. The very business at hand made the old warrior uncomfortable-democratically choosing a king? A divine ruler chosen by men and all their vices! It seemed an absurd but necessary business to Lord Stolt. 

A pockmarked man with a shaven pate and topknot was speaking. [i]"I have no aspirations for Kingship. I only wish to see the best candidate for Osteria...and there is no better man Duke Conrad"[/i]. 

Duke James Conrad. Stolt spied him at the far end of the table, pale faced and dressed in fine clothes. Courtly clothes. Lord Stolt knew this man and had heard of his plea to King Timault to halt his crusade against the Blackmouth Clan. Duke Conrad had been dismissed, much to the shock of the court. 

It also seemed that Lord Garantius, of Marethia was in contention for the throne. It seemed it would come down to these two men, whom Lord Stolt hardly knew, if by reputation only. As graceful as she was, even the Lady Allard seemed unsure in her nomination of Garantius.

Lord Stolt gathered his courage and stood, chalice raised. 

[i]"My lords, and lady. I am Lord Jerran Gades Stolt, forgive me if I have no steward to announce my titles and privileges, for I am a simple man. In truth, this is the first time in twenty years I have set foot in this fair city-"[/i]

Jerran paused. His heavy southern accent seemed to amuse the nobles at the table. Jerran coughed awkwardly. [i]"Forgive me, I am still in mourning for our beloved King. I rode from the Gates of Thunderhall under his banners, and soon parted ways at the Ravine of Snakes where..."[/i] Lord Stolt pulled the black scarf of mourning from his neck and folded it carefully on the table. His fiery red beard framed his chin perfectly, and below it, hung the necklace of polished black orc-fangs. 

[i]"We parted ways. That is all I will say of King Timault. As for this business of 'electing' a king to rule, I cannot say I agree with the process wholeheartedly. In that spirit, I cannot in good conscious submit myself for candidacy of governance. I will provide, however, to whomever may prevail in this debate, a lifetime of knowledge and service fighting and defending this Kingdom from our most horrible enemy. I will not lie my lords and lady; my soldiers are hungry. They are tired. They have suffered the worst defeat in half a century and they have lost their king. I have lost my King. The enemy is more vicious than anything you can imagine my lords. I would ask for a place at the council, so that my voice may be heard and my experience in fighting these animals considered. I abstain from voting for election of a king. I have said my peace, my thanks."[/i]