[centre][b]Deitrich Bern[/b][/centre]
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For sixteen years he had remained isolated on his own lands, convincing himself that it was necessary to consolidate his right to lordship. But now, with a sea of unrecognized noble faces surrounding him, he realized that his own people were only half the battle. He called himself a lord proper, but these strangers probably saw him as nothing more than the Sellsword Lord. An irksome name the Lord Eric had given him when grudgingly declaring his claim legitimate.

There were crests Deitrich could give name to among the crowd; the sword and dove of the Felix's, the seashell of the Crane's, and the red ferret of the Ferguson's. But the faces were strangers, his own supposed peers unknown to him. He should have mingled these past years, visited himself upon his neighbours. But he hadn't, and found himself alone among the royal swarm.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, but when he turned to look there was no one to see. A door leading to the hall was slammed shut shortly after, however, and Deitrich felt that that was caused by whoever wanted his attention. Pushing through the crowd he made his way towards the door, wondering who wished to talk to him. More importantly, why they wished to do so behind closed doors. His hand flexed, the scarred skin taught beneath his glove. He wished for his sword, but he hadn't brought it into the hall in order to avoid appearing threatening or dangerous.

Upon reaching the door, Deitrich opened it and slipped through, closing it behind him without glancing back into the hall.