Tiny taloned feet jumped along the cracked concrete. For hundreds and hundreds of leagues stretching, there were dilapidated and destroyed roads. Small mountains of concrete, brick, and metal rubble lined them. Husks of buildings, empty, dusty, and lifeless, were scattered for miles. Some stretched and grasped at the sky, while others were humble and closer to the ground. The humble buildings, likely the ancient shelters of families, were clustered together into what were likely small communities. Metal poles with lights that no longer worked framed the intersections of these roads, their colored lenses dimmed. If one searched long and hard, passed the concrete graveyards and giant steel corpses, passed the empty, veiny, paved roads, and passed the limp limbs that were once harbors on the shoreline, one could find purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain tucked away in little pockets of lively greenery.

Behind that tiny taloned sparrow, an old man, hunched and tired, followed. He wore a mesh of baggy, dark grey cloth that covered him like a robe. His sleeves were broad and deep, and a tiny tail of tattered cloth trailed behind him as he walked. He clasped a rugged column of wood, one that could almost be mistaken for a tree branch. It hooked at the top, and from that hooked top hung a black, iron bird cage, just large enough to snuggly hold a sparrow. As the pair, the old man and the bird, walked together, not a single footprint was left in the unyielding concrete. The couple had passed an intersection, and beyond that intersection there was only a single strip of road, serpentine as it ran through the eye of the rising sun.

As the pair continued their trek through that winding road, the old man stopped. Still in the ruins of an ancient city, a metal bench sat on the side of the road. The old man shuffled towards the strip of black metal and took a seat. His trembling right hand, with accentuated, swollen knuckles, reached into the depths of his opposite sleeve. He pulled out a curled sheet of board, the equivalent of paper fashioned from salvaged cardboard boxes, and unfurled it. His wrinkled eyes squinted as the sheet was brought closer and closer to his face. He deftly rolled it up and stashed it in his sleeve again. His tiny bird companion hopped with fluttering wings onto his lap, chirping furiously. The old man extended a calloused and dirty finger towards the bird as he murmured, "Passer, deliciae meae puellae."

The man and his bird continued down the ruin, the morning just behind them, nipping at their heels.

The high noon sun reflected off the old man's bald head, and beads of sweat slid down his long, wiry, graying beard. The old man lurched down the wide concrete pathway, soldiers encased in carapace (a material that combines assorted leather, hard plastics, and thin metal) lining the grassy road to an ornate, ancient building. Rectangular, spires at every corner, the style of the building appears to predate even the dilapidated towers of the Old World. The patchwork army, armed with makeshift spears, marched in formation, hours before the lawn would be covered in ambassadors and merrymakers. The soldiers let the old man take his drawn out steps and struggle up the stairs, beyond the toppled statue (sans a plaque), and to the doors of the building.

As the doors closed behind him, King Dowager Pompey sauntered down the stairs in his royal regalia. A crown glittered atop his head, with a red cape trailing behind him. He shouted to the old man, his arms wide open, "Welcome, Magister! You arrive early for the ceremonies, but my court is happy to accommodate you."

The sparrow jumped in his cage hanging from the old man's staff. The old man replied, "I'm not here for the ceremonies, Pompey."

Pompey stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Then to what business do we owe this occasion, Magister...?"

The old man, his gaunt face scrunching, continued marching towards Pompey, his staff striking the floor with every stride. "You know my name, Pompey. You also know why I'm here."

Pompey, his round, bald face twisted in a wry grin, began to walk beside the old man up the stairs. "Really? I think I might have heard of you... Cat... Catil..."

"Catullus." The old man dryly interjected. At the top of the stairs, Catullus took a left, marching up another small flight of stairs, Pompey's cape flapping behind him.

"That's quite a Roman name; are you from here, then?" Pompey jogged to Catullus's side enthusiastically.

"I have taken the name of the author whose work it is my duty to memorize and translate." Catullus stomped down the empty halls, covered with outlines where paintings and busts used to rest.

"That's quite interesting, I never knew-"

"I've told it to you every time I've seen you." Catullus interrupted. The sparrow remained quiet and still, rocking back and forth as his cage swung with the staff.

"Really? When did we first meet?" Pompey asked, as he and his visitor's steps echoed in the entirely vacant building.

"I raised you." Catullus commented.

"Really? I'd think I'd know the name of someone to whom I owe so much." Pompey retorted.

Catullus turned to Pompey, while his eyes, wrapped in wrinkled skin, met Pompey's for the first time that day. He exclaimed, "Fuck you." He kept walking.

Pompey sped ahead of him and opened an lavishly carved, if ancient and peeling, wooden door. The two walked in to a round, panoramic room. The room's furniture was clearly never replaced and, miraculously, it didn't need to be. The chairs were shifted to the side to allow a center aisle leading to the luxurious throne, which was the only addition to the room. Looking up, one could see the balcony, where common folk with money could observe the king make his declarations; however, usually blue bloods would be the ones sitting in those benches.

Pompey gingerly closed the door behind him, "Gods damn it, Catullus."

Catullus, walking down the center aisle, shouted, "It's your fault."

Pompey raised his voice, "It's my fault that the people will throw a fit if they think I appointed a Magister?"

Catullus walked into one of the front rows, "For one, they won't throw a fit; they'll grumble and groan and go home. For two, a Magister has always been an advisor."

"The king never had a Magister as an advisor."

Catullus cackled, and his sparrow chirped wildly. "You hold his place no less than three times, he dies in war, you marry his daughter, and you wear his clothes, and you still call him king."

Pompey followed Catullus into the aisle, removing the crown from his head. He stared at himself in the warped, tinted reflection before he tossed it on the chair next to him. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow and plunged himself on a seat next to Catullus. He picked up the shimmering crown again, feeling its weight in his sweaty palms. He scratched at the golden chains holding his mantle and cape before unfastening them, letting them slump and furl into the chair. He looked up at the old man staring down at him and asked, "These clothes are hot and itchy, and the crown is heavy. How does anyone wear this?"

Catullus placed his swollen, veiny hand on his shoulder. He sat down in the chair next to him and replied, "He doesn't wear it in an empty building."

Pompey shook his head, and the two shared a moment of silence. Catullus spoke up again, asking, "Now, where are my quarters? My bird needs to breathe." Catullus wiggled his fat finger between the bars of the bird cage; the bird grew to attention as he gently pet its underside.

---

How a man like Conrad got elected as the representation to her area she'd never know. Disrespecting the city's magister, wearing cloth akin to animal skins, and not a gift in sight of his own when he went to-no doubt-demand something outrageous of the king. Yes, the buffoon did an excellent job of representing her people...as barbarians. She barely kept her sigh to herself, seeing as she was stuck on a wall to keep an eye out for "anything suspicious" and to "represent the Land of A Thousand Kings" well. Her parents had told her to learn about the East, not stand out like a sore thumb.

To that end, she still wore her ceremonial dress. She didn't care how the rest of the city-states chose to represent themselves, but she wouldn't let Columbus be lumped in with the others. No matter how united a lie The Thrall wanted to put up, The Land of A Thousand Kings was diverse. She was proud of her people, just as they were proud of her. She was sure that had they believed she'd only be a GUARD, her parents would have sent some GUARDS.

With that in mind, the rebellious young woman left her wall-sitting duty to peruse over the offering of food. It seemed the revelry was in full swing as people danced and socialized all around her. While being much much bigger than she was used to, Alejandra reminded herself that she was accustomed to the festivals of her city-state; this was no different than that. Nonetheless, she'd skip the drink for basic water. She'd rather not tempt the Fates.

A fellow guard tapped her on her shoulder as she was finishing off a small loaf of bread. She discreetly nodded and made to follow the guard. And to her happiness and absolute joy...she was ushered right back to the moron's side. Most would probably be happy to be upgraded to the personal guard of a very important person. But Alejandra was not most people and she certainly wasn't looking forward to whatever was in store.

As the music died down, Morgan looked up towards the balcony where the band was being conducted by the Purple Piper, and luckily seemed to catch his eye as he turned to view the party down below. She gave him a quick nod, so that he was aware she would be coming to meet with him and then set her attention back on the crowd before her. It didn't take long to weave her way through the crowd of attendants, most seemed to barely even notice she was there, to the staircase that lead to where the band was set up. Morgan didn't bother to see if anyone was following her, as she knew many of the people gathered were much more interested in their own business, than that of a medicine woman, even if most of them recognized her at least by name.

There was no rush to reach the top landing of the staircase, so Morgan took her time on each step, slowly rising to the top. As she reached the landing, she looked around, observing the beauty of the architecture, and then her eyes landed on him. His almost smug face was glancing across the balcony at her, having not moved from his spot at the front. Another nod from Morgan was all it took for the Purple Piper shift his weight and return to standing upright, before carefully walking across the area towards her. She moved to meet him part way, and as they met, she was the first to speak.

"Good evening Purple Piper, the Trade of all Jacks. I hope I find you well this fine evening." Morgan gave a slight bow of her head in his direction as she greeted him, showing a sign of respect to the man.

The wedding was a tiresome affair for Eli, though that was nothing new. He could often be found sitting quietly by himself among crowds and revelry, and that was how he preferred it, but that had been hard to achieve at this royal wedding. Eli was not one for expressive jubilation, or expressive anything for that matter, so he tended to drift toward the edges of activity to claim a relatively calm and quiet space for himself. Normally he might have succeeded and found a refuge among his fellow Midlanders, but being something like a guest of honor, invited to fight in the final event of the tournament, brought plenty of attention his way. Eli supposed he should get used to this sort of thing, since regardless of winning or losing on the morrow the name Eli the Fearsome would probably spread throughout the people of Albany. Unless he died, of course, in which case he would have no need to fret about dealing with the attentions of admirers or detractors.

Both types of attention came his way that night, mainly the latter. Nobody knew who Eli would be fighting, but the lords of Albany made many snide remarks about how he was sure to lose against the king's chosen champion. They apparently viewed it as some show to prove the might of their homeland against foreigners, wherein the champion of Albany would defeat the champion of the Land of a Thousand Kings and prove once and for all which was the greater land. Eli was very amused by those implications. Judging from the indifference or outright coldness he received from most of the other Midland visitors, they did not view him as their representative in any way. A couple had implied that he was some kind of traitor since he fought for various lords of Albany, never mind the fact that he'd never turned his sword against his homeland. It was all very tedious and draining, but he responded to all of them with courtesy nonetheless.

Eli sat at the edge of the largest pocket of Midlanders, at the side of the room bur near to the dais as befit the higher stature of those making up this clump, and felt the position was very suiting. He was on the border between his homeland and Albany, a presence in both but truly part of neither. He was left alone for the moment, all those who wanted to wish him ill for tomorrow's fight apparently having already done so, and he looked round the room without any goal in mind, just seeing what was happening and keeping an eye on the goings on. Amidst this aimless watching, Eli saw a particular set of eyes turn his way a few times, seemingly directly and only at him before looking away. That struck him as passing strange. He had made his courtesies to the king earlier, thanking him for the honor of the invitation, and he had extended that to the queen as well. Why in the world would she be looking at him? Did she think his earlier address had been rude since he did not speak to her directly, only as a secondary inclusion in what he said to King Pompey? Did she view him as some kind of foreign threat that needed to be watched? There was really only one way to find out.

After making his way through the various tables and standing people, Eli stood at the base of the dais. He was not nearly so presumptuous as to climb the steps without leave, so he bowed to her from where he was. His left hand naturally went to his hip to grasp his sword hilt, the traditional warrior's bow, but it closed on empty air; he had left his sword behind and went to the wedding unarmed, as doing otherwise would have been seen as an insult or perhaps a threat. As he stood straight he put on the slight smile he used for diplomatic endeavors, squinting his eyes just a bit to make the pleasure look genuine. He'd already decided to act as if he was here of his own volition, rather than coming to see why the queen kept looking at him, and appearing pleased to be in her presence would help with his chosen excuse.

"Queen Julia, it is an honor to stand before you. I fear I may have been impolite earlier, when I spoke to the king and gracelessly ignored your presence. Your radiance was so captivating that I found myself tongue-tied, and so I fled without paying proper respects. I am a simple wandering knight, and a foreigner at that, but if there is anything I can do to make up for my earlier impertinence I am at your service." Eli bowed once more, this time holding his left hand out slightly to the side in proper courtly fashion rather than reaching for a missing sword. He hoped he'd gotten his guess right about the reason for her glances, and that the queen did not view him as a threatening presence, otherwise this foolish gesture might be taken in very much the wrong way.

Deitrich Bern

---

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.

It was something he'd been anticipating for weeks. Augustus viewed the wedding as an invaluable opportunity to earn more political capital, to develop relationships and build new ones. He had planned for many different scenarios and potential challenges. His preparations didn't include a relatively uneventful event. The chatter of his peers didn't belie the kind of transformational moment he had idealized. It was more like everyone was settling into a new complacency, taking for granted a new paradigm of leadership. As it turned out, the initial instability from the old King's disappearance seemed to be an isolated event. That meant Pompey had handled the situation skillfully.

But it also meant hours of inanity with other noble born subjects. A lot of it consisted of the typical barbs and boasts that one would expect. They never tired of subtly reminding him of his family's own misfortunes, to which Augustus had largely grown inured. A few times, his lack of interest and general aloofness caused insult without him intending any, which didn't hurt his standing (given the relative obscurity of those he encountered) so much as it saved him time.

So when he saw the elderly man lurching toward him, Augustus had mixed emotions. He obviously felt apprehensive about the letter he'd been given, and about what Catullus had in store for him in general, but if it would deliver him from the disappointment of the wedding party and engage his mind in something more rousing, he would be grateful. His relief didn't last long when Catullus seemed to almost lurch into him, and the cage caused him to reflexively take a step backward, nearly spilling wine from the goblet he'd been grasping a little too carelessly for sudden movement. Politely, he attempted to speak: "Good evening Mage-" but was cut off by the barrage of abuse that seemed to come from nowhere. The first issue, he attempted to address by saying, "I'm terribly so-" but was cut off again. After two more attempts, he gave up and kept his mouth shut, nodding furiously at each subsequent volley. His ears burned with embarrassment when he was finally notified that it was because of poor hearing that his attempts were in vain--he might as well have been talking to himself.
Then Catullus began to walk off with very little warning, leaving Augustus with the task of rushing after him. It proved to be an overreaction, given Catullus' painfully slow gait. Without the natural graces his upbringing had instilled in him, his sudden move might have sent him crashing into the man ahead of him. But of course it didn't and, to his credit, he still didn't spill his wine either.

In the shadows of ancient ruins of skyscraping cities, masses of wooden huts littered the forest expanses. Farmers and craftsmen shed their sweat working in the day and shivering with their families at night. With every village was a graveyard of those taken by the torturous winters of Canada, and with every passing winter, they grew, ready to engulf every village in a garden of white headstones.

Outside the glamour, glamour meaning safety, of the Gaulish cities, villagers toiled to bring dues to their brutish king, housed in the crude, wooden rotunda with the local druid. A man swiped at his crops one at a time with a sickle, filling two barrels: one for his family and one for his king. Parts of his wool rags were soaked with sweat, and his limbs scream for rest. He walked up and down every row of his field, taking one after the other, preparing for the winter.

Another stood atop his house, repairing his roof. His hammer smacked nail after nail, bringing board after board into place, but as the sun set in the West, he dropped his hammer down the gaping hole in his roof; he wrapped his arms around himself, knowing that he had to freeze another night.

A woman stirred stew in a poorly made pot over a dying fire with an agonizing rhythm. Every back and forth with her spoon stretched the sinew in her frail arms as beads of sweat drop into the cauldron. An infant began to wail in the corner of the room, trapped in a round nest of twigs and cloth. The woman hurried to the child to silence his cries; he rocked him to and fro to the steady rhythm of the child's cries.

In the house of the ill, which was just as lopsided and loose as the houses of the healthy, an old man lied heaving on a mat, which is to say he lied heaving on the stone floor. From sun up to sun down he felt every beat of his heart, rattling his body with the same, agonizing rhythm. Every bump was pain, and between each bump was dread. In time, he'd know peace, but it would only be for a time, for illness moved with the same up and down, back and forth: pain and dreading pain. The whole village played to the tune of misery besides the king, and the druid whispering in his ear.

A horse clopped into the village, accompanied by dozens of marching men and the beat of a drum. The people of the village halted. In the open, grassy cove, in the center of the village, a man in red robes and golden trim sat upon a horse with an ornate garland on his head. The people circled round him, following the drum beat. On his back was his symbol: a red staff with a gold sun at its head. Farmers and woodworkers, sick and healthy, men and women, young and old halted to observe. The rider and his men marched by the stares of on looking peasants and into the great, shapely rotunda.

---

Red torches lit up the grassy cove, as the village gathered around the swiftly made stage in a half circle. The night had cast its darkness all around, but the torches lit the village in a blaze of red. A biting chill filled the air, except in the village, where the torches spread warmth. Behind the stage, a wicker man loomed over the congregation, golden and thirty feet tall, given an eerie glow by the torches on the stage.

The rabble began to chatter as the king and druid waited patiently on the stage, fidgeting on the stools, frequently looking over their shoulders. The stage and people were surrounded in darkness on all sides, and the king and druid muttered between themselves in a hushed tone.

The chattering and muttering was made silent by a beating drum. It seemed to come from nowhere when the drummer and his sizable drum marched out of the rotunda. He took his place at the far end of the stage as another man arrived behind him. He bore a megaphone, and he solemnly took his place at the center of the stage. The crowd and even the king and druid were instantly silent as he shouted, "Surrender your ears, comrades, as the leader approaches. All recognize Vercingetorix, King of Great Warriors, True Leader of the Gauls, and Herald of the Dawn."

The man's stomps on the wooden stage were heard by everyone on the crowd. His gaunt face was illuminated by the glow of firelight, and he seemed to stand taller than the wicker man. His herald offered his megaphone, a simple wooden horn, and Vercingetorix denied it. He smacked the bottom of his staff against the planks of the stage, and all were attentive, if they weren't already.

"You toil in the dirt for your families and your tribe," he proclaimed, "and you surrender yourselves for everything that you love. I look into all of your eyes, and I do not see your suffering; I feel it. It fills my heart with more sorrow than blood, blood that we share, comrades."

The people's eyes widened, their arms at their sides, as they heard him shout to the them and to the sky. Vercingetorix's motioned to the surrounding village, "I see the work that you do, and I know you feel that it isn't enough, not enough to keep you safe, to keep you warm, or to keep your beloved. Nay, I do not see it; I feel it."

Tears filled the eyes of many as they listened. Vercingetorix continued, "But every winter, nay, every day, it seems that all is taken away! All that you work for, all that you were given, slips between sweaty fingers, and in that moment, one knows the emptiness of misery." Vercingetorix grew louder as he went on, pacing from end to end, looking everyone on in the eyes as he spoke. With every moment he spoke, the people stood straighter, their jaws hanging loose and eyes wide.

Vercingetorix beat his chest as he continued, "And I work too, comrades. I work for you, for you have all worked for me." He looked down, motioning to his robes and staff, "I did not make these; you made these. You have made what is mine, so I seek to make what is yours. But what is yours cannot be made, for what is yours has been taken from you."

Vercingetorix swiped his staff pointing it accusingly to the south, "In the South, they do not make or earn; they take. In the South, there are no winters, no masses of white gravestones. The South steals, and from you and each other they have stolen all that they have." As Vercingetorix spoke, the crowd began to stir. "While you toil, my comrades, my beloved, scraping together what you little you can find with sweat slicked hands, the pigs of the South dig into their wealth with hands oiled with grease!"
The crowd grew louder, many of them starting to shout, though none of them could overpower the voice of Vercingetorix. The king began to rise, but the druid held him back. Vercingetorix motioned behind him towards the wicker man, "And for the crimes of the South, I hereby sentence the South for thievery!" The lit torch was brought almost instantly not by the king, the druid, or any of Vercingetorix's men, but by a woman in the crowd. She reached up to him with her thin hands, and Vercingetorix took the torch and her hand in his hands. After thanking the woman, he tossed the torch into the wicker man, setting it alight with a reddish glow.

"Their sentence will not be death, comrades." He cried, as the crowd jeered and booed. He continued, "Instead, their sentence shall be loss! When their gold and food slip through their greasy fingers, when they shiver in the winter nights with not a scrap to warm them, and when they weep over the plots of their loved ones, they will have paid their penance!" The wicker man was now almost instantly covered in red fire, tinting the crowd and the surrounding village with a red glow.

"And all of you, my comrades, will be compensated! You, my beloveds, shall carry out the sentence!" He declared, his staff swiping at the crowd, his booming voice filling the air. Vercingetorix's men tossed the people's tools to the crowd, and as the wicker man burned, the drummer began to drum again. The people clanged their hammers and sickles together with the beat of the drum.

"You shall dig into the wealth of the South, holding it in your hands! You shall feel the warmth of their hearths! War shall be waged against the South, and you shall wield your tools against them, and they will fall!" Vercingetorix's voice climbed higher and higher, still overpowering the beat of the drum and the clanging of metal.

Vercingetorix virtually danced along the edge of the stage. Some have been reputed to rouse fire or wind with their staves; Vercingetorix roused people. With every swing of his stick, people reached for him, throwing their souls to him, and Vercingetorix looked them in the eye and brought them into his heart. "Everything shall belong to you, my beloveds! When the Red Sun rises, nothing shall be taken or lost anymore! Just as you have given everything for your families, your tribes, and for me, to you everything shall return when the Red Sun rises, and with it so will all those you have lost!"

As he said this, the crowd lit up. With all of their cheers, still none of them could match Vercingetorix's voice. "The dead shall be brought to life! The cold shall turn to warmth! The sick will dance and the shivering will step into the sunlight! The worker shall wear a crown, and the North shall take the South, while everything they have slips through their greasy fingers!"

The wicker man crackled in its blaze, the drum beat was lost to the euphoric rhythm of clanging hammers and sickles, and the darkness was lost in the heart of the red fire. Vercingetorix was now conducting an orchestra, controlling the music of adoration with every word and swipe of his staff. He raised his arms to the sky in his thunderous crescendo, "Brandish your tools, my comrades! You will have all that you have longed for, for I love you, comrades! In this cold and awful world, where thieves are kings and kings must thieve, I love you! Oh, please, won't you sing for me, my nightingales! Sing until the Red Dawn rises!"

The crowd began to chant what sounded like "wicker man" into the sky. The embers danced as the tiny village of only a few hundred became the brightest, reddest star in the night sky, filling it with the clanging of hammers and sickles until the sun rose.

---

The inquisitive young noble took in the information with wide eyes. A war? With the Gauls? What sort of madness was Conrad getting them into? A Champion of the Midlands? Now she really knew Conrad was nuts.

The Land of a Thousand Kings was just that: a land of a thousand kings. For them to actually pick a champion to represent the whole of the Midlands would require no less than a week's worth of tournament. Hell, to find a champion just for Columbus' Harvest Feasts and Celebrations took over a week. Mostly due to pride, for being known as a champion was important to a house and city-state.

If their timing was correct, that would leave no time to draw a vote for a champion, nor to hold a tournament. Was the King going to send a personal champion with them? Did they expect Conrad to fight? If they did, might as well let the Gauls invade tomorrow.

Alejandra listened intently to the conversation, and barely managed to keep a facade of boredom about her. Conrad was still an idiot in her eyes and mind, but the King was proving to be sensible. She just hoped he didn't leave it to Conrad to choose a champion, there was going to be backlash, but if the champion lost...she wouldn't want to be Conrad.

Alejandra watched the entire meeting take place, her face darkening more and more with every negotiation. By the time to boards were signed, her fists were clenched tighter than a baby's around a finger. She was seething now.

She understood the King's stance, and was quite happy that Conrad wouldn't be choosing the champion. But rather than ask for time to discuss with the separate delegation, Conrad just...gave it up?! She kept her head high, but nearly anyone could see the rage in her eyes should they deem her important enough to look at. When she saw the fellow guards disperse she immediately went to Conrad for answers.

"What in the blazes was that?" she hissed through clenched teeth. "You...do you not get what you've just done?" she ran her fingers through her hair in aggravation, "Why the old guys chose you, I don't know...you KNOW that anything that regards the Midlands affects everyone. Why didn't you request a stay to discuss this with the other delegates? Or at the very least, pretend to actually take to time to think of someone you brought as a guard? The king had enough on his plate for you to shove off a consideration that could have meant glory for our region, if not the Midlands as a whole." she growled angrily. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice more, "At least have the courtesy to offer a name before making demands. Is that what you want all of us known as: Ungrateful Barbaric Brutes?"

Queen Julia's reaction was not at all what Eli had expected, but not in a necessarily bad way. He had apparently embarrassed her with his compliment on her appearance, which was an amusement in and of itself. She likely received such comments regularly from courtiers, yet she blushed nonetheless. Even the lesser nobility of Eli's homeland found themselves inured to petty compliments at a young age. Her actual words, however, put a halt to the knight's amusement at her reaction.

"Your Grace, I am humbly honored that you would deign to worry about my safety." Eli paused, considering how best to proceed past the bland courtesy. He could thank her and leave, but that might be considered rude. He could press her about the cruelty she spoke of, clearly referencing his mystery opponent for the tournament tomorrow, but that would certainly be rude. The middle route, simply continuing the conversation without any pressure, seemed his best option. "Fighting is cruel by nature. I may indeed die tomorrow, but that is part of the risk I take by deciding to live by the sword. I do not know who King Pompey will set me against tomorrow, but I can assure you that he will not find me to be an easy opponent." Eli thought for a moment then smiled, this one a real genuine expression of humor. "I probably shouldn't be bragging of my prowess to the Queen of Albany on the eve of fighting the King's chosen champion. Some might consider it improper. Alas, my tongue runs away from me sometimes."

Alejandra didn't back down from Conrad, rather she met his eyes as she listened to formulate her reply.

"You were chosen because old men are getting sick of constantly bitching at each other. You practically represent children with how divided we are. I was called on to represent my home and our related lands to foreigners. I AM you, just on a smaller scale." she put her hands on her hips. "You're here for more than to just bitch like the rest of those old men, Conrad. You're supposed to be representing us as the Midlands, not acting like a child and throwing away valuable opportunities..." she ran her hand through her hair.

"I get that you don't want to fight his war, but do you really think the Gauls would stop there? Any number of champions could give those Gauls pause. What if they try to invade Albany through our lands if Albany's champion beats theirs? They'll think us weaker and ripe for the taking." she rubbed her eyes. "Sure, maybe getting involved in the Champion face-off would make us targets, but either way, we could be involved. Why not be proactive and show them how mighty we are?" she asked in frustration.

"Regardless...being stuck under your thumb all night hasn't given me the chance to present Columbus' gifts to the King and Queen in thanks for their invitation." she looked back at Conrad and closed her opinion: "You make valid points. But I still think you made the wrong decision in not discussing this with the other delegates. What if they do choose a champion, but a demand two as an accurate representation of The Land of A Thousand Kings? They choose their strongest and then one from our represented area? You know St. Louis can be cutthroat. It would weaken us tremendously, if for the sake of them posturing to show their dominance. And you put yourself into a spot since you waived the ability to have any choice in the decision making of our Champion. You'll let the "book King" choose one instead. You had the upper hand, Conrad..." now her fear was apparent.

Rémix, Gaulish Barber-Surgeon.
Surgery, first aid, barber, cooking, sentry, scouting, manual labour, literacy, brawling, polearms.

---

Putting a hand to his forehead and arcing his back, Rémix stretched himself out to try and alleviate the typical ache of a long day's work. People just don't know how to keep themselves healthy any more.

For the better part of day he'd been toiling away, inspecting those who came by for whatever ailment they suffered, fixing some, sending others to Lugurix for a more sophisticated treatment. That is to say, one that focused more on biological remedies than the physical cutting, snapping, and bandaging that made up most of Rémix's line of work. There were always more sick to treat, and always less hours in the night than needed to sleep. If it weren't for his already robust and enduring physique—compounded by a what some might call a voracious diet and a few stimulants prescribed by Lugurix himself—he fully expected he himself would be in need of some healing, if not for the body, than for the soul. Heavy bags hung from his eyes, and old grit adorned his calloused skin and his long fingernail, torn at the edges.

But a healer's work never ceased, just a disease continued to reap its crop day in and day out. Unfortunately for him, he was nowhere near as tireless as his constant opposition.

Today was no normal day, however. Though the sick and the frail and the paranoid drifted through as always, outside the meagre walls in which he toiled few others were at work. The fields mostly bare and the homes vacated, a new guest drew the attention of all but the most devoted and the least sociable. Vercingetorix had arrived with his tales of retribution and war.

Rémix had little care for their new "king". He was but another excuse for the people to throw away all their hard work. More young men and women starving and falling to the chill of the canadian winter. Why was he so focused on the South, when problems were bad enough as it was up here?

Lowering his hand again, Rémix turned to Lugurix. Nodding his direction to the door, knowing the elder man was fully aware of Vercingetorix's arrival, he approached his companion. "The king," he grumbled. "What do you think of him. Does he have what it takes?"

He respected his fellow's opinion, for what it was worth. Always better to have two thoughts than one. Rémix also gave a quick cursory glance at the patients the two'd have to be taking care of. Trying as the man's motives may be, Rémix would like to see the man himself, but not if it meant leaving Lugurix to more work than he could handle.

Morgan gave the Piper a strange look at his greeting. She wasn't surprised that he knew her, but his comment about the tournament and her role at the whole event was a bit strange. She was one of the most well known medicine women in the country and though she wasn't one to brag, she was probably among the best. To be told she was basically a front to make the fighters feel better about the whole tournament, was a denial of her skills and frankly, quite upsetting. However, Morgan was not one to let her emotions ride on her sleeves, so she quickly let the shocked look on her face vanish, and replace it with a calm respectful air.

"I have heard that, yes, but what strikes me as odd is that you imply that either no one will be injured, or that no one will survive. What does that mean for the winners? I may not be a surgeon but I do have excellent first aid skills that would help someone until a surgeon can be summoned. Are you to imply that even a surgeon won't be needed?" She looked hard at the Purple Piper, watching the smile on his face seem to grow as she spoke to him. He was a dangerous sort of man, and she only hoped that their conversation would not put her in his bad graces. The Purple Piper could be a great ally if he managed to stay on your side, but he was most cetainly, a formidable enemy. Becasue Morgan was not very good at reading the feelings of others, as the moments ticked by, she cautiously waited for the Piper's reply.

Alejandra had always been impulsive as a child. She'd often been reprimanded by her father, but no one had dared to grab her face. In that moment, she didn't care whom he was or why he was there. Before she could act on such blatant disrespect, the coward had tucked his tail and ran away. He was definitely here on a power trip, she was convinced.

Nonetheless, she'd gotten herself on the guard duty for Pompey's champion personally. And she couldn't have been more excited. The young woman could barely keep herself from doing a little jig, for she wouldn't be behind Conrad, but rather at the Champion's side. With a great view of the match, if she might add. As guard she should be relatively close in case someone tried to get involved right? Oh the possibilities of what she could learn and see!

She thanked the gods for the opportunity, for even as she failed in making Conrad see the issues with his idiotic rationale, he had-in a weird vindictive twist she guesses-gave her a much better job then she'd rode up with.

Alejandra weaved through the crowd, for she looked for the advisor from earlier or for anyone that could direct her to the line to give the wedding gifts. Her parents drilled it into her that these gifts were meant for the King and Queen. Her father was a shrewd man, and always seemed to have a second plan. With his aspirations to help Columbus increase trade, she could only do as directed and make sure the gifts were seen and-hopefully-received.