Laurence wasn’t sure about his assignment. Or, at least, he wasn’t sure what he thought of it. He’d guarded folks before, that was sure, but never a prince. He wasn’t sure how it would work, but he knew it wouldn’t be the same as guarding some mayor or standing outside some noble’s tent. He was relieved when he was told that he’d be allowed to keep the sword, but was not looking forward to using it in the relative tightness of the castle. He made a mental note to procure an arming sword from a smith when he had the chance.

Laurence appreciated the quick pace leading up to the prince. He’d spent more of his life in castles than he wanted to think about [and less than he’d have wanted, being honest]. He’d seen the Hoffburgt a few times, though never been posted within its walls, and despite the fast pace his eyes darted around in a time-trained fashion burning pertinent geography into his mind. The location and slope of stairs, the number of wells, the number of troops, the slope of the thatch roofs and a hundred other small details. Halfway through his inspection he noted that such observations would likely be completely unnecessary, but he figured there was no harm in it, and took in what he could before he entered the keep proper. He turned a more keen eye on the hall, but didn’t manage to make any important observations: he could count the number of times he’d been in any feast hall on both hands, and he hadn’t been in one so large in the better part of a decade. He’d take a closer look later, memorize the ways in and out and other such precautions.

He found himself growing more and more nervous as he approached the prince’s door. His mind filled with possible outcomes, with a particular fixation on a gallows after some slight or incourtesy.  His nerves kept him silent and straight [an unfamiliar sensation: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt nervous, but he supposed odd times bring odd sensations]. He remembered to bow a second after Terryn, and flushed with chagrin.

He listened eagerly to what Warren had to say. Laurence was eager to know more about such an accomplished fighter, curiosity mixing with respect and not a small amount of jealousy. He hadn’t had much of a chance to talk with the man, and was looking forward to learning more about the man [and specifically about his swordsmanship] over the coming days. What Laurence heard was not what he expected: top courtesy, an answer that felt rehearsed and no doubt everything that was expected of an honest servant of the realm. Laurence was disappointed, though the bow and inklings of displeasure remedied the feeling, rekindling the curiosity at the apparently feigned performance.

Assuming it was his turn to speak, he began, forgetting to bow or remove his helmet or any other such courtesy, trying to determine how much of his foolhardy motivation he should tell. “My reasons are less patriotic, my Prince, though I’m happy ter be workin’ for the crown, so I am. Every man has to eat, and soldiering’s the only thing I know how ter do, so I see it. Not sure if that’s greed, but I reckon I ain’t one to say, considering.”.  Remembering to bow at the end, he did so, his head coming about level with the heads of his companions, as he stepped back into line, shifting the shield uncomfortably on his back.