[center][b][h3]Conrad Sforza: Baron of Lussex[/h3][/b][/center]

The third knock went unanswered.

A frown creased the craggy and weathered features of Tyrum Blackmore, Lord Chamberlain of House Sforza. With a sigh, gnarled fingers applied pressure to find the door unlocked. The stench of sex and sweat struck the Chamberlain like a slap to the face. A woman lay in the bed, jumping to hide her exposed breasts with an outstretched hand. It did nothing to save her modesty. Blackmore dispassionately recognized her as one of the kitchen wenches that had served the Baron the previous evening at last nights supper. 

A snarl of agony from the adjacent chamber drew Blackmore’s attention. 

‘’ Out! ‘’ The word was a growl, the girl hastily slipping into her dress and fleeing for the doorway as fast as her feet would allow. He caught her arm, even at sixty years of age, Blackmore was still surprisingly strong. 

‘’ If word of this…incident.. becomes common gossip, you will find yourself on the street…and then I will find you, do you understand? ‘’ He said in a soft whisper, his voice not once rising. But Blackmore's grip was so strong that he had left marks in the soft and yielding ivory flesh of her arm to drive home his point. With a nod of understanding and animal fear lingering in those pretty blue eyes, she fled. Tyrum pivoted and marched towards the adjacent chamber, another grunt of pain eeking through the doorway. 

Baron Conrad Sforza was an imposing man. He stood well over six feet, his face was scarred by old wounds and the Red Pox that had claimed the lives of his family. However, it was the righteous fury that Blackmore now found himself on the receiving end of that most concerned the Chamberlain. Conrad held a light whip in his hand, his back bearing the self-inflicted wounds of flagellation. 

‘’ I have sinned. ‘’ The Baron explained simply, a scowl sliding over once handsome features turned grotesque. ‘’ I am a slave to the flesh and so the flesh must be punished. ‘’ Sforza said, dropping the bloodied whip at his feet. Blackmore was already fetching a basin of water, after many such incidents, the Chamberlain was adept at cleaning the Baron’s wounds so that they wouldn’t be prone to infection. 

Regardless, the Baron wouldn’t be able to wear a shirt for the next week without wincing in pain. There had to be a red tunic here somewhere…. 

--------------------------------------

Sforza found himself sitting at the King’s Council three hours later, evaluating the now former Duke that he had cast his support behind. The Baron had gambled hard for King Gyre’s promises, a chance for Lussex to achieve true independence from his fellow sovereign Lords. The Baron toyed with his signet ring, his mind coming to focus on the task at hand. 

[i]‘’ No doubt there are better and more qualified men who could lead the Black Army. Unfortunately, many of them lay dead on the field alongside our former King. I, Baron of Lussex, Conrad Sforza put my name forth to lead the Osterian Army as Marshal and in King Gyre’s name continue the Crusade against the South. ‘’ [/i]

Lussex was not a rich territory and the Baron (soon to be Duke) could afford to leave the daily administration to his retainers. Though no doubt many more nobles would seek to burnish their own ambitions.