Earlier, Rot Donar

Horath spurred his tired horse past the guards at the entrance, the rain pelting down upon them both and the white mare's hooves sinking into the mud with each step. He stroked her lowered head and whispered a few words of comfort.
'Not too long now, we're here,' at which the mare raised her head slightly and whinnied. He knew she was tired, it could not be easy being a mare, he imagined, but for each creature upon the earth was a dictated mission and purpose, and it was the fate and purpose of the mare, the horse, the cow, the bull, the donkey and other such beasts of burden, to carry Man and serve him. It was as the Monarch willed.

The sounds of the camp had reached him long before he passed through the entrance, the shouts and the hammering and the laughing. Even in the purifying rain, the smell of food brewing pervaded the air. Back home there was very little rain, but when there was, Horath had always liked it. There was something about the rain, he did not quite know what. Perhaps the rain was the Monarch's own tears, shed when he looked down upon the world He had created and saw what had become of it. Bringing the mare to a halt, he sat there for a while and let it pelt him for a while.
'Whatcha doin' yer idiot!' a shout reached him, and he looked around himself to find a half-drunk peasant under a tree, surrounded by his friends, laughing at him.

Some people feel the rain, Horath thought to himself, while others just get wet.

Dismounting, he led the mare further down where a few horses and donkeys were tied beneath a make-shift canopy and hay had been provided. Tying the reins there, he relieved her of the saddle and packs, before carrying them off and finding some space to set-up his small tent. As he walked, he came across a tent with a cross in front of it and decided that there was no better place to set-up his tent than beside the camp's shrine-tent. Leaving his things in the empty tent - no one seemed to be giving it much notice - he began setting up two metres to the right. It took a while, the rain and muddy ground not helping in any way (and the taunts of the same drunk man reaching him, having chosen to follow Horath for reasons unknown) but eventually, he managed to set it up. The rain caused it to droop slightly, but it would hold.

Returning to the shrine-tent, he got his packs and saddle and placed them within his own tent, laying out a small leather sheet in the middle which would suffice as his bed. Removing his leather breastplate, Horath then set-off for the huge tent with the line of men and women extending from it. By the time he got in the line it was already late afternoon and people were clearly getting tired of waiting. It took a good long while, the sun was beginning to set by the time Horath finally entered the tent. Inside was a table with a chair behind it. On the table was an oil lamp, a book and a quill and some inkpots. The chair was empty, though there stood beside it an armoured man. Horath assumed whoever had been sitting had grown tired and left the rest of the registering to his guardsman.

Horath approached the table and the guard spoke in a dry voice.
'Introduce yerself, credenshols if ya have any, an' sign yer name in the book,' Horath nodded and spoke.
'I am Horath Evren Al'Montsar, former Knight of the Most Holy Order of the Servants, a member for eight years and in active service for six,' with that, he proceeded to scrawl his name in the space provided. His handwriting was barely legible, even he had difficulty reading it, but he saw from the many crosses layering the above spaces, that it did not really matter. One signature caught his eye, written so beautifully he almost thought it to be calligraphy or some other art-form. Surely a woman had crafted something so delicate.

Saewine Era Bloodworth it read. It certainly did not seem like a woman's name...but it could have been. Horath had certainly never come across that name before, though Bloodworth sounded very familiar. He could not quite put his finger on it.
'Whatcha standin' around for, eh? Stop starin' at the bloody book an' get outta here ya twat!'
Horath frowned slightly, not helping the thought that the guard's words had been rather uncalled for. He could have just asked him to leave. However, Horath had come across people whose whose obscenities were far worse, he thought he could stomach the man's rudeness. He would call him forth for judgment when they all stood before the Monarch one day. Nodding respectfully, he left the tent. As he did, he could hear the guard muttering something about a, 'bloody prick.' Just one more sin he would be punished for by the Monarch, it was sad how lightly this fool called eternal torture upon himself.

Feeling hungry, but not having said his prayer yet, Horath briefly considered whether he should eat or pray first. After a second of hesitation, he made his way to the mess. He doubted the Monarch would appreciate it if his slaves grew weak and sickly due to valuing prayer over keeping their bodies healthy enough to pray. Indeed, keeping one's body - which was in itself a gift from the divine - healthy and well-fed was in itself a form of worship. For with that, one sustained themselves and made it so that all other actions done for the sake of the Monarch were possible. It took him a while, but a sudden roar - which turned out to be the commander giving orders - led him right to the place.

'Said that we'll be marchin' at the morrow, 'e did,' a man who sat to Horath's right told him. Another to Horath's left disagreed.
'Naah, mate, he said in the afternoon. Said it 'as best we get proper drunk tonight. Said e'll be draggin' our arses behind in the mud whether we likes it or not,' as Horath ate, he could not help but feel that the commander said not such thing, perhaps the former was right after all. The former then spoke up.
'Said not to get a tent up tonight, better be sleepin' under a tree, bush, or some lucky fella's bed, 'e said,' Horath looked from one drunk man to his right, to the other on his left and decided that perhaps both were wrong and it would be best to find a more reliable source of information.
'Said 'e's taken a real fancy to me, 'e did,' the one on the left giggled into his bottle, 'though mind'ja, wouldn' catch meself half a mile round 'im if it came to 'at, eh?' he guffawed, layering the side of Horath's face with a mixture of drink and alcohol. Being a teetotal, Horath could not say he appreciated the gesture. The rain would wash it all off when he walked back to the shrine-tent.
The two kept up their chatter, getting ever more daring with the minute, and before long the topic had turned to what it eventually, ultimately turns to. Women. Horath took this as his cue to leave and left the pair to their perverted fantasies.

The rain washed over him as he walked back, and the spittle and drink was washed away. As he walked, Horath allowed himself to observe the camp. Night had fallen and there were not too many people out and about. A few lamps betrayed a guard here or there, but other than that, it appeared everyone had taken to their tents to get out of the rain and cold. Entering the shrine-tent, a single dim lamp illuminated the place. Horath could not see too well inside it, but he had the odd feeling that there may have been someone sleeping to the right. It might have been his imagination though. Stepping forward gingerly - if there was anyone there, he did not wish to disturb them after all - he got to his knees before the lamp, where a cross much like the one outside had been planted into the ground, and intertwined his fingers together, muttering a few generic prayers before making his usual requests of the divine.

'Oh Lord, who art most Mighty and most Wise,
Protect us this night as we sleep,
And protect us in the morning when we rise.
Protect us poor and helpless sheep,
Oh Lord. Oh Lord. Oh Lord.

Oh You who art most blessed and most true,
Aid us to honour you as is your rightful due,
Protect our weak and decadent souls,
From he who in the darkness calls,
Raise us up on the glorious day,
Redeemed and honoured, and not astray.

My Lord, I come to you calling on this night of your nights, asking that you, in your magnificence and glory, strengthen my heart on your path and strengthen my arm in your cause. Make my strike just and my words true, and let not the seeds of hypocrisy and corruption taint my weak and dependent heart. And Oh Lord, do not lead me astray after you have guided me, you are indeed the most merciful and forgiving.
My Lord, aid me against those who have wronged me, and bring them low by my hand in this world, and bring them low eternally in the next. By your grace, Oh Lord.'

With his prayer done, Horath was silent for a few seconds, enjoying the moment of peace wherein all things melted away and all that existed was his Lord and him. That night, in his tent, despite the cold and spartan bedding, Horath slept peacefully.

The next morning was abuzz with energy and activity. After his morning prayers, Horath was accosted by two guards who checked his equipment before carrying him off to some sort of armoury-cart. His heater shield was mercilessly painted black, it's beautiful colours marred. His helmet was deemed unworthy and was taken to be melted down at some later point, in its place, Horath was given a kettle helm with a noseguard, while his chainmail was deemed good enough. The men took some time to admire Horath's strange gambeson, praising the additional protection it provided.
'Does mean it's heavier though,' one of them noted, 'might not be too great if we're battlin' in the swamps,' Horath considered this but shrugged it off. He doubted it would make much difference really.

With that, he returned to his tent and set about packing up, deciding that donning his armour - even though they would be traveling, was for the best. He was a Black Shield and had to look the part so long as he was on duty, and as far as he was concerned, he was on duty.

Present; In the Proximity of the Hoffburgt; Black Shield 'Barracks'

Orders had been given the night before and the company was busying itself with repairing a run-down building which was to become the Black Shield barracks. While most 'soldier types' had been given the order to polish and care for weapons and armour, Horath had leapt at the opportunity of building the shrine with gusto. While he was no builder and was mostly a hindrance to those who knew what they were doing, his excitement to be serving the Monarch in such a way and his constant words of motivation were rather nice.

'C'mon men! For each brick we lay, there awaits us pleasure and great reward from the Lord!' while not everyone was quite as religious as Horath (indeed, rare were those who were) nobody complained about promises of reward for duties they had to do anyway, and the men he was working with seemed to get to their duties with greater inspiration. The speed at which they worked was rather stunning, so stunning in fact, that Horath found himself polishing armour and weapons by late afternoon, much to his disappointment. He hoped there would be more shrine-building in the future...

Horath had heard word of some kind of feast happening tonight, but he doubted a measly lowborn like himself would be welcome. Perhaps he could spend the night in that beautiful shrine they had built instead...

Terryn Hoffmann

---

All was calm for the time being, so Terryn had more than enough time to pay attention to the possible captains. It was only then that he noticed Saewine was sitting down - strangely enough.. he was about to walk over when he was approached by a man with a fine tunic, and a felt hat with fur trimmings. “Excuse me, gwuard. Where can I find -hiccup- the nearwe... the.. pissing pots..” Terryn internally sighed, but didn't let that much be known as this man was undoubtedly of noble stature. As such it was his duty as a lower man to help him. This forced him to give up his attempts to discipline Saewine and give him a firm kick under his ass, Monarch knows he needs it. With quick steps Terryn walked the man to the hallway and pointed him towards the nearby loo. The man scurried off, walking side to side as he had filled himself up with booze much too quick for the feast. Terryn then proceeded back to the hall, which seemed to have filled up quite a bit over the three hours that they'd been standing there. There was no sign of the king, or any of his children or maybe even his wife yet, though judging from the amount of people in the feasting hall they'd be arriving soon.

And sure enough, it didn't take long for the king to arrive, with his wife at his side walking arm in arm. The whole hall quieted down and Terryn quickly got back into position at the pillar that he was standing near at the start of the day. It was a good moment to oversee the hall, with everyone being seated or standing near the walls, cup of wine in hand, looking at the king like everyone was supposed to. Terryn started looking around, subtly, to see if he recognised these people. Jarrod Blackhall, of Blackhall keep. Rodrik, a merchant living in the Hoffburgt. Trades in weaponry and armor. Marcus Harloin, prince-priest of Coedwin, not a particularily faithful priest. Nice to talk with, though. He recognised a few of the more famous men in the hall, though there were more minor figures here too. And this was just the start, as the hall would likely fill up even more during the night.

“Friends, family, lords and most esteemed guests..” the king opened, standing up in front of his antlered throne, while queen Anne had sat down by now and looked over the hall with a big - albeit fake - smile. Terryn could imagine that after sitting through a hundred of these feasts, you'd get tired of them. Yet queen Anne always had a smile on her face. Admirable, if you asked Terryn. “.. why are you all so quiet?” the king continued, showing off his sense of humor as everyone laughed. The real question was, who was laughing to gain favor and who was laughing because they really though it was funny. Terryn's guess was that none of them actually thought it to be that funny. Nobody laughed this long at a simple joke like this. The king went on with his little speech relatively soon, causing the room to quiet down again. “Now, we will feast deep into the night. Perhaps my son Dorran will even find his future spouse, who knows!” The people again nodded along and spoke to the ones next to them, pointing out possible candidates and women that Dorran might like. After that the king sat down too, signalling that the feast could, now, truly begin.

This was also a signal to Terryn that Dorran would likely be making an entry soon. He would look at his three accomplices and give each of them a nod respectively. It was time to get into an alerted mindset and start paying attention to the people in the room, but also the environments. There were several windows that were opened, that would lead from the garden into the feasting hall. Possible intruders would be able to get in through there. Pushing himself away from the pillar, he'd walk a round around the room. It was normally not an imposing thing to see Terryn - okay, maybe it was slightly so - but with the kettle hat and chainmail hanging from it that covered his entire face, revealing only eyes and mouth. It would be quite imposing even for the most trained warriors in the room.

There were little things that Terryn could see that he'd have to do something about - there were no assassins hiding under the tables, or on the ceiling. Besides that, all they could do was try to dissuade the guests from attacking anyone else. So far that seemed unnessecary. But with that said and done, Dorran entered the room. He was dressed in a fine jerkin, coloured a navy blue color, with fine black trimmings. He looked handsome as ever, and was pretty much the spitting image of his father in that regards. The hall slowly went a bit more silent as he entered but it was quick to pick up volume again. Dorran didn't waste any time getting into the mix and quickly joined a group of noblemen - most were rather old, but that was good, as they had also brought their daughters. It didn't take long for Dorran to make rounds through the room, speaking to everyone, before ending up with a group of the nobles' daughters. He, some other young nobles and the daughters seemed to be having a good conversation together. Probably, it was mostly about families, wealth, and far away family that couldn't make it.

It didn't take long for Bjorn to show up too, not dressed up like his brother was, and still in battle ornate, wearing his usual armor with the sign of the Servants on it. He was also wearing his sword, not uncommon for feasts like these although most preferred a more ornate sword, where as that of Bjorn was simple steel, with no ornate things on it what so ever. The hall didn't have the same reaction to Bjorn entering as they did to Dorran, which made Terryn feel a bit sorry for him. Bjorn was, by a long shot, a better man than Dorran was. Though he wished not speak ill of Dorran, he was a son of the king, and that meant he was above Terryn. But Terryn also felt Bjorn was above Dorran. Not that it mattered what Terryn thought. Rather than mingling around with other nobles, Dorran walked over to his regular group of friends. They were also all dressed in more combat suitable attire - and most also had Servants' insignias on them, although some had that of the Robed Swords. They were all relatively young too. The real job begun now, however - keeping an eye on Dorran and ensuring his safety.

---

---

Caterina was still busy getting drsessed with the help of atleast four of her maids, although she'd lost count about halfway in and she was quite sure it was more than four at this point that had touched, dressed, undressed, dressed again and adjusted the various powders and coals on her face at this point. She had had enough at this point, speaking out to them kindly but firmly, “Please, I think I'm done now. I'll do the rest myself, you girls hurry over to the feast yourself.” The girls sighed with relief, as did Caterina, before they hurried off to the feast themselves. It felt kinda sad what she was about to do, but she did it anyway. Without help from her girls it was a bit more difficult but after about ten minutes of wriggling and wrangling she finally got out of her dress again, shivering from the cold as she was almost completely uncovered at that point. Caterina didn't want to emberass her father even more by wearing a tunic and a set of trousers, but she simply couldn't do what the other girls did. There wasn't a way she would be holding her breath in that corset, whilst walking around trying to not break a rib.

So, she dressed in a much easier dress, colored navy blue, a color that caterina rather liked. It was also much looser fitting, whilst still being moderately fashionable. Ofcourse, she'd probably turn a few heads. But if anything, other women would want to be like her, and her dress would become more fashionable. Women did anything to gain royal favor, mostly in way of dress and speech - even a girl that was untrained in politics, like Caterina, knew this. So she wasn't too worried. Ofcourse, her hair was braided. More so, it had been braided for hours on end. It was braided on the sides, that would then go to the back of her head, towards her ponytail. It wasn't as intricate as some of the other ladies had their hair, but it would do the trick. As she was about to leave the room, she stopped herself before leaving and looked back, at the chair in the corner. On it was her burgundy and gold jacket, that she always wore. She wouldn't be able to leave it behind, but it was a silly thing to wear over a dress like hers. Well... Caterina quickly ran back and grabbed her jacket, and put it on. Maybe the other ladies would wear a jacket to the next feast, too.

She flew down the stairs, atleast that's how fast she was going, in an attempt to be at the feast even quicker. She wasn't a fan of the feasts generally but her father was, and she didn't like to dissapoint him so she had promised herself to show up. It was also a chance to see her oldest sister, Aren. She had missed her laugh, as it was one of the most cheerful laughs in all of Broacien. She had cried a lot when Aren was departing to live with her new husband in the Barren Wastes. She didn't understand, at that time, why Aren would go to live in such a desolate land. Now she understood, and envied her sister. She'd give up a lot of things to be able to explore those lands. She entered the hallway leading to the feasting halls, and slowed down her pace. She had to slow down and catch her breath again if she wished not to look like a wheezing, breezing fool. One... two... three... she said in her mind, catching her breath as she did so. After she had calmed down her heart and breath, she opened the doors to the hall and headed inside, proceeding down the middle lane towards her father. She'd be sitting at the royal table, along with her sister Aren, her husband and her other sister Erica. Perhaps Erica would invite a knight to sit with her, to keep her company, but as far as Caterina could tell Erica hadn't done so yet. Perhaps she was waiting for a certain person to arrive? Coedwin was quite far, after all, and Caterina knew that Erica fancied a certain knight from there. It remained to be seen what would happen tonight. She'd sit down and notice some of the women looking at her, but Caterina was unable to discern why, or in what manner. Maybe they were judging her, maybe they were inspecting her more closely to find out what to dress like next year. Who could tell? Certainly not Caterina, although at this point Caterina didn't care. Her father didn't give her any weird looks, despite the jacket and dress, so it was probably alright. She looked over the hall, noticing the guards standing there. She recognised Terryn, a former castle guard she'd like to talk to in earlier years of her life. She waved at him shortly, only recognising him by his characteristic way of dress, and his large monarchist cross hanging from his chest. He was probably the only castle guard to so openly wear items like that. She knew he couldn't wave back, and as such the wave was more to show that she remembered him. Surely he'd appreciate that.. she hoped.

Warren had followed orders for the better part of the day. Go here, do this, listen to this, go there, do that... Warren wasn't exactly new to this lifestyle. As a mercenary, he'd done many things for the older, more experienced members.

He had entered the hallway alongside Terryn, Saewine, and Laurence, and took up his position along a pillar. It was boring work for the time, as nothing interesting was happening. A bunch of high and pompous nobles came in and conversed about things that seemed menial to Warren. Observing Saewine and Laurence from his post, Warren shook his head at them, letting them know he was already fed up with the nobles. The people who entered was somewhat recognizable, mostly the few who had arrived from places like the Barren Flats and Redsand. A few nobles Warren particularly liked, but most he didn't like. He had developed a sort of obvious dislike for nobles, wrongfully believing them to be pompous assholes. Except for the previous Queen, Lady Ella, and he daughter Anna - the current queen. Warren had developed a sort of keen loyalty for them, especially since it was King Tristain's lineage. Gregar wasn't a terrible man, but Warren would have felt more comfortable had Tristain's daughter, Anna, marry someone she wanted to marry.

Still. Gregar was the son-in-law of Ella and the King, so Warren wasn't about to disappoint him. He'd keep a good watch over Anna's children, for his loyalty and duty forced him to.

"Wyk? That you under that helmet?" Warren squinted and turned his head, seeing a man approach. It was Marcus Harloin, of Coedwin.

"Master Harloin," Warren said, somewhat surprised. "A pleasure to see you again. How did you know-"

Marcus grinned and laughed. "No one else with a hunched back like that would join the Black Shields. Soon as I heard you had left Redsand and joined up with the Black Shields, I sent search parties out to recover your carcass from the road," he joked.

"Pfft, come on now, I'm not that bad off," Warren said gleefully. "But if you don't mind Marcus, I should be watching out for Dorran and the rest of the royal family. Perhaps we can speak later."

"Oh of course," Marcus replied, "later then."

As if on cue, Dorran entered the room. With a sudden drop in volume, it was evident he was the more popular arrival of the entire feast. He went about carrying on with the nobles and daughters around the hall, as was usual for a prince. I'd expect Ella to be proud of her grandchildren, thought Warren. It wasn't long before Bjorn came in. Warren had a sort of higher respect for Bjorn, or at least more than he had for Dorran. Then the young Caterina appeared. Warren didn't notice her at first cause of her clothes, but grinned at her cheerfulness and freedom.

Hmmm, Warren began to think as he examined the room. There was a lot of chatter. A lot of people. Most unrecognizable. Maybe Dorran isn't the only one we should be watching out for. Warren casually left his post, as if he was meant to. Perhaps Terryn would be disappointed; he might even flog him for it later, but Warren was doing what he thought needed to be done. He strolled over to Saewine first, trying to look 'on guard' as best as he could so no one would notice anything was out of place. He didn't want to frighten anyone, so when he got close to Saewine he quietly said to him "keep an eye on the whole Royal Family. Dorran may be a prime target, but we shouldn't dismiss Caterina or Bjorn either.

Warren rounded the pillar Saewine was posted at and walked over to Laurence, still acting inconspicuous. "Watch out for Caterina and Bjorn too," he said to Laurence quietly.

Now there was only Terryn himself. Making his way around the hall, he passed by Terryn and also told him "don't lose sight of Caterina, sir. Dorran's not the only high priority target for would-be assassins."

It didn't take to long but Warren finally weaved his way back to his post. Most people saw him and moved out of the way, examining the garb of the Black Shields.

"Come one, come all!"
"Hurry hurry here's your chance, see the mystery and romance"
The excited voice of the announcer sounded through the feasting hall. He was standing on a raised platform in the middle of the hall, ensuring the royal couple had the best view. The man was dressed in a fine suit of green velvet with gold trimmings. On his face he wore an elaborate mask of gold lace and flowing peacock feathers. The crowd was beginning to gather around the stage whispering excitedly as they pointed towards the stage and the announcer. The man praised his first act very highly but there was no one to be seen anywhere on or near the stage. The announcer was the only one there and some of the guests glanced around, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of this elusive dancer yet to no avail. It was indeed strange and the crowd had no choice but to patiently await the start of the act.

"Come one, come all!"
"See the finest girl in dance, make an entrance to entrance"
Floure was waiting in the wings underneath the stage, in a small hidden compartment listening to the words of the announcer. He had her change into a different dress, a gown more suited for the noble audience for whom she would be performing. The garments she'd been wearing were deemed inappropriate. She didn't like them calling her most beautiful garments unsuited, which just meant they were ugly. The announcer Frederick had told her the way she dressed was much too revealing and would draw the wrong kind of attention. Strange considering the gown she was wearing now covered not an inch of her arms. It was beautiful there was no denying that. It was probably the most expensive piece of clothing she'd ever touched or worn in her entire life. There feel of the fabric on her skin was velvety soft. It wrapped around her left shoulder in elegant folds of sparkling midnight blue fabric. Around her waist was a corset not made of leather but a sheer silver fabric, much stronger than it appeared cinching in her waist nicely. The same sparkling fabric was tied around her waist in a voluminous bow, the ends trailing down over the bottom of the dress. A wide skirt of silver folds, covered in countless hand sown black lace butterflies.

He had her wear a very clumsy pair of slippers in which she could barely move, due to the high heels. Floure wasn't quite sure what kind of dance he was expecting from her, but these shoes had to go. Frederick continued to excite the crowd which gave Floure some time to make the necessary adjustments. She took off the priceless pair of slippers and instead put on her jeweled anklets which had bells on them. These were the anklets she'd worn every day when she was taught to dance. They were her lucky charms and made every performance one to remember. She adjusted the tambourine at her waist to make sure the knot wouldn't come loose just yet. She took a deep breath and relaxed her mind, not entirely different to her preparation before fortune telling. After that the young woman stepped on the wooden lift which would carry her up to the platform to make her grand entrance.
"Wish me luck grandmother" She whispered under her breath as her fingers passed a small silver ring on her little finger.

"Dance my desert rose! now.....DANCE!" Frederick cried out in blissful excitement which was followed by him throwing something onto the floor creating a flash of light and colored smoke. When the smoke cleared the announcer and the dancer had switched places as if by magic, as Frederick had now disappeared, yet nobody had seen him walk away. The fiddler began his tune and Floure followed his every play.



She felt alive and free, with only the fiddle as her company. Floure tapped the tambourine against her hip and played along with the fiddler, urging him to up his tempo. Her feet fell into the familiar steps of the Traveler dance, the way she moved was both elegant and seductive, a strangely alluring combination. She took out the red ribbon adorning her hair, which was meant to keep it tied up neatly. Floure hated the constricted feeling of having her hair tied in that way, especially when she was dancing. Frederick who was standing at the edge of the stage did not seem amused by what she was doing. He tapped his foot on the ground in an irritated fashion, his expression heavily annoyed.

Her dance was at times fast and exciting before melting into a slower more enthralling performance, in which she aimed more for seduction, drawing the eye to where she wanted it. The young woman lowered herself to the floor laying down on the stage, the gown fanning about her like a flower. She playfully winked at the audience, smiling mischievously at the people who were watching her with wide eyes.
Oh how she loved to dance.

Staring into a mirror at her reflection, Sara’s hands came instinctively to her waist, pinching the poor thing in, an analyzing frown tight on her lips. The gown fit as it should, a milky ivory wrapped around her arms, though with the whole of her shoulder blades exposed. Atop the pearly white, petal-shaped pieces of turquoise were sewn overlapping, first bunched together, but just beneath her chest, they slowly began to wane, exposing the white most stunningly at the thin of her waist. And it was tight in the bodice, just as it should be, all the way down until the petals, this time slightly darker, bunched atop her hips in a tight band. Beneath it, loose fabric began, folded in irregular, but beautiful shapes, like mountain tops on a distant horizon. All the way to the floor, the aqua dripped from her, flowing and shimmering as light passed through the many slightly translucent layers. It was a gorgeous dress, her most gorgeous dress, the dulled aqua and ivory having an almost tragic beauty when paired together. Sara stared at this dress, her frown growing more deep set as she did. She loved the gown; it had been a gift from her father for her fifteenth birthday. A very expensive gift at that, and she’d known at first glance he had not just seen the thing through a shop window. No, this was the type of dress that had been commissioned, perhaps worth more than a month of a typical seamstresses wages. When she’d pulled it from the box, Sara could feel the fine fabric slipping through her fingers, and just as delicately as she had raised it, she had put it back, too afraid that she might ruin it simply by touch. It was not a day dress, not the type of dress she ever even unpacked, knowing that a field was no place for it. There had never been an occasion worth something so fine, and after a month, the gown was all but forgotten. Even the night prior to the feast, Sara had not remembered the dress. It wasn’t until her eyes opened for the morn, did she recall the gown and go tearing after it.

And now it was on, fitting as any good dress should, but still Sara did not feel at ease with it. Surely, a hundred other girls would be wearing dresses of similar elegance, and she had no reason to feel overdressed, yet she did. It felt false to wear something so nice, like she was hiding behind it, trying to appear like something she was not. Standing there, caught in her own gaze, Sara took a deep breath, her gloved hands gathering folds on either side of her gown, and lifted the end as her legs folded in a curtsy. All the while, her eyes remained transfixed on themselves, a smile crossing her lips, as well as an introduction, “Lady Sara Medved-…” The girl paused, to give time for her imaginary stranger to reply, before she continued on, her smile plastered on her face, “Enchanted.”

Her mock meeting was broken by a startling call, he might have knocked, if the door was anything besides thin canvas.

“Sara?”

The girl nearly jumped out of her shoes to the voice of her father, soothing out the flare of her skirt, and stepping away from the mirror, face glowing red nonetheless. Nikolas Medved waited a few cautionary seconds, listening for any call of ‘Wait’, for he wanted to catch her in a compromising moment just as little as she. So the man waited, silent and politely, before slipping a gloved hand through the flap, and stepping in.

Nikolas was not an all-and-all imposing man. He stood a basic 5’9”, with a close-cut head of graying brown hair, and a peppered beard to match. Though he rarely smiled, his face was not that of a bitter man, instead he’d look idly serious, brown eyes staring out, startled by his daughter’s gown as much as she’d been startled by his voice.

“Where did you get that?” He asked in disbelief, stepping closer to the girl, who looked away in quiet embarrassment.

“My birthday; you gave it to me.” She answered, peering up at him, and the almost scared look on his face only adding to her embarrassment, “Stop looking at me like that-..What’s wrong? It looks okay, doesn’t it?”

Her voice sped with paranoia, but the man nodded slowly, uncharacteristically delayed as he looked her over one last time, “I bought you that? Bless the Monarch-…Wear a cloak, there must have been a mistake, never would I intentionally buy you a gown without shoulders.”

Sara, who was already terrified, now looked at her father in absolute horror, her hand coming to brush her shoulder, “Will I need-…Is this too much?” She asked him, to which the man scoffed.

“I only jest- Don’t worry, compared to many of the other women, you’ll be nothing but modest. Still, wear a cloak.” Though his voice was stern, it was not so stern that Sara thought him completely serious. He seemed a dry man, but beyond the first crack of his flat voice, there sat a layer of humor many missed.

In response, Sara smiled at him, twisting around, and pulling a cloak from its pile, “Of course, Father. I shan’t take it off the whole night.”

The man closed his eyes, a breath of air exiting through his nose, “I have been in the halls before, Sara. You’ll remove your cloak the second you walk in; far too hot.” Though he did not agree entirely with the dress, and yearned for any excuse to make the girl stay, Nikolas was a fair man. He had given the girl both the gown and his word, and neither would he deny her, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, the man just sighed and shook his head, gesturing awkwardly out toward the door, “Are you nearly ready, Sara? I doubt you wish to be late. Your escort waits outside your door, once you are finished, he will take you to the feast, and bring you back, understood?”

Sara nodded, “Of course, Father. Thank you.” All the girl could do was grin at him, and as Nikolas turned away, her smile nearly made him turn back on his word, and force the girl to stay. She might hate him for it, but Nikolas was not ready for her to go, his poor sweet girl didn’t need to know the world she longed so desperately for. It wasn’t what she wanted, he knew that, but he also knew that she would have to discover that herself, no matter how much it might hurt her to realize. Children grow, even sweet and innocent ones, and so as Nikolas exited the tent, he looked toward the man placed in charge of his child.

“Take care of her for me.”

“Yes Sir.” The man answered, and Nikolas heard his salute, but was too far away by then to return it. Instead, he returned to work, knowing that the only way to keep himself from worrying was to keep busy.

--

Sara and her escort arrived just as the crowd was at its thickest. A line of noble bodies were streaming into the castle without the least form of discipline or order. It was all very exciting to her, passing by a hundred new people in a matter of minutes. Her hands held onto her skirt, lifting it a couple inches off the ground, her flat, opal slippers stepping carefully across the stone, up the stairs, and eventually, through the door. As she climbed the steps, Sir Elvin kept close, dressed up in a soldiery uniform, one not meant for actual defense as it had no plate nor helmet, but for ceremony. His job seemed more to watch over her than to defend the girl, though should the time come, he still had a short sword swinging from his hip. But once she had passed through the doors, Sara looked back, and his face was gone, sunk to some railing perhaps, or down to the courtyard. At least, that’s what Sara hoped for the last thing she wanted was to be chastised for losing her guard. The girl didn’t concern herself too long about it, giving a quick glance around, before continuing into the feasting hall, the general flow leading her there easy enough.

Wandering through the open hall, she noted the stage- for the entertainment, and the raised table- for the entertained, the royal family. Both of these things would be where her attention would lay throughout the night, ever eager to take in what she could. So far, the girl felt unnoticed, which was a good feeling, for Sara feared that they would point her out like a spectacle, wonder ‘who’s that’ and perplex when they couldn’t put a name to her face. There were just so many nobles, from so many places, nobody noticed there was one very few knew the name of. It was relieving to her that she fit in among them, perhaps a bit more wonderstruck because this was all new, but otherwise, it wasn’t as if she was a moth amongst butterflies.

Suddenly, a hush filled the hall, and Sara turned along with countless others to see the King and Queen enter. Her hands folded carefully in front of her, one twisting along the pearl bracelet she wore, the other hanging loose. Never in her life had Sara seen the King, and it was quite awing to her now, watching how his wife folded delicately into her chair, and how he spoke with such confidence. It seemed perfect to her; just as she had imagined it. The moment was quick, and soon the attention shifted from the King back to the man beside them, chatter beginning again. Sara turned away as politely as everyone else, though every so often, she glanced back at the royalty, weaving carefully so that she was close enough to see them, but not too close that she’d be noticed.

Standing alone, Sara hadn’t the gall to introduce herself to anyone. Surely, there would be friends of her father she might know- perhaps even her Uncle was here, but so far, Sara hadn’t seen anybody of notability. Instead she stood alone, quietly regarding others, her hair braided loosely down her back, short pieces falling out, curling themselves up against her chin. While she adjusted one piece, the elder Prince entered, and Sara was as stunned as any girl. It just wasn’t fair, he was handsome, he was powerful, he was a Prince for the Monarch’s sake. What girl wouldn’t immediately swoon? Sara wasn’t such a fool that she’d think that she’d ever get the chance to even talk to the Prince, but a girl could at least pretend.

For a while, she stood there, watching the royalty enter, first Dorran, than Bjorn, and finally Caterina. The older Princess’ were no where to be sighted, at least by Sara’s eye, and so slowly, the girl drifted off to one of the many tables, taking a seat, but with no appetite in her belly. Eventually, she assured herself, she was bound to see someone she recognized. Until then, the girl sat off alone, peering around with wide-eyed enthusiasm, not yet concerned with her lonesome, plenty of people were sitting alone, and looking quite fashionable while doing so.

Night had fallen and the feast had begun. Horath sat on his knees in the small shrine, all on his own. He had thought it very strange that no orders had reached him regarding this night. At the very least, he would have thought, the Black Shields should have been patrolling the city to ensure that no suspicious things happened. But nothing had reached him, and so he had come to the assumption that he would be off-duty tonight. What better way to spend the early evening than in silent contemplation, at the mercy of the divine?

His eyes closed, he listened to his heartbeat. Over the years, he had grown used to sitting there listening to his heartbeat. It reminded him of his mortality and human frailty.
Da dum da dum da dum
He could not help but wonder how amazing it was that this thing within his chest beat like this from the moment he first took breath to the very last, never stopping, so ordered.
Da dum da dum da dum
Every single heartbeat was written somewhere in a book with his Lord. He knew how many there would be, and no matter how much Horath prayed or how he lived, he would not have a single heartbeat less or more. Nor could any other living being, the mare he rode, his fellow Black Shields, the greatest of kings had only so many heartbeats, and the lowliest of peasants.
Da dum da dum da dum
Yes, kings and peasants would die, the peasant may have an unmarked grave and the king a great mausoleum, but all would lie in the same earth. The same worms would eat on their flesh, and when both become nothing but dust, no one would know the difference between the earth which was once a king and that which was once a peasant. Then on the glorious day, when all stand before the Lord, the king and the peasant would be judged equally. The king's status will not save him from the torment if he had done wrong, nor would the peasant's status deny him bliss if he had done right by the Lord.
Da dum da dum da dum

Reaching around his neck, Horath pulled on a small leather string. From beneath his tunic came a well-carved flute. He opened his eyes and looked at it, his eyes foggy and distant. A name was carved into the flute in delicate handwriting, and he brought it to his lips and kissed the markings. There would come a day, or perhaps it would be a night not much unlike this one, when he would have his vengeance, and the Lord would have the souls of those scheming, plotting sinners. There was a great corruption upon the land. Its seeds may be small, but all great trees were once small seeds, were they not? He would uproot them before they grew too strong.

Moving the tip of the flute to his lips, he began playing a gentle tune. It was not at all melancholy, unlike the sudden turn of his emotions. The tune was rather calm, soothing. It was as though he wished to quench the fires of his anger and sadness with the cool waters of the melody. As he played and the minutes passed, the tune grew steadily louder, and Horath did not hear the footsteps which approached until they had turned into the shrine and stopped. He did not look up however, nor did he stop playing.

'By the Monarch's teeny balls, man! What in 'is name are you doin' 'ere!' the deep voice rumbled. Shocked - partly by the sudden disturbance to the peaceful night and partly due to the crude choice of language - Horath stopped playing and looked up, allowing the flute to fall against his leather breastplate.

'This is a holy place,' Horath said coldly, 'show some respect.'
The man, carrying a black heater shield and dressed in the signature helmet of the Black Shields, took a few steps forward. Horath allowed himself to consider the attire for a few seconds. The shield was certainly to be expected - they could not be the Black Shields if they did not have black shields now, could they? But the helmet was certainly something else. It took on the shape of a kettle helmet on the head, but unlike normal kettle helmets, it then had a large nasal guard which covered the eyes and nose, leaving small slits for the eyes. Sewn into the metal of the helmet was a chain mail aventail which left nothing exposed but the mouth area. This particular Black Shield wore an accompanying metal cuirass and greaves, beneath which was a chain mail hauberk. On his forearms and hands he wore leather gauntlets and at his side was a sheathed a longsword. Overall, he was prepared for the furies of battle.

Horath's own attire paled in comparison, with nothing but his leather breast plate and leather gauntlets. He had left his Black Shield attire and full-plate in the shared dorms by the few blankets he could call a bunk.
'Yeah, I know it's a holy place, smartass, but this ain't the time to be sittin' around here being all moosical, we're on duty. And you're sleepin' on the job!' he stopped a few metres from Horath and pointed at him as though he had just caught him sniffing a rat, 'get your armour on and come with me. The Commander gave me the task of makin' sure that lazy 'uns like you don'y get away with it. C'mon, c'mon,' he signaled for Horath to get walking. Having been unaware of any such duties tonight, Horath got up reluctantly, not wishing for what he thought to be an evening off to be so quickly brought to an end.

The patrolling Black Shield followed him to the dorms, and when Horath was in his gear, he told him to stick with him and give a shout if he spotted any suspicious types - or any men sleeping on the job. Clanking about in the dark alleys and streets and making the amount of racket they were, Horath was pretty sure that any suspicious types would hear them coming for miles, and any sleeping on the job would quickly wake up and look sharp before being spotted.

They had not been walking around for more than ten minutes when his partner suddenly stopped and let out a small whistle.
'Would'ja look at that, lad,' he whispered. Horath looked at him and then in the direction he was staring. It took him a while to make out the form of what must have been a woman standing around in one of the side alleys. Noticing a potential customer, she sauntered out, allowing for both men to get a better look.
'You open for business hon?' the patrolman asked, taking a few steps towards her.
'If ye've got the means, then anythin' for yer...hon,' at her words the man let off a snicker and turned back to Horath.
'Think I'll leave the rest to you mate, make sure you don't let no one of those lazy 'uns sleep on the job, eh?' and with that he turned away and followed his lady's swaying hips.

Horath allowed himself a few moments to wonder at the irony of those last words before letting out a small sigh and continuing the patrol. He had been in the capital a good few times. Certainly not well enough to know all those dodgy alleys and routes, but he knew his way around the main streets and the outskirts, and that was good enough to carry out the duties left to him by the man, who was now certainly having himself a nice time between the thighs of that wench.

'Everything good here, men?' he asked a few men standing around on the eastern rim of the town. At his voice, they stood up straight and looked around.
'Uh, yeah, everything good here...' one of them responded, 'uh, sir,' he quickly added. Horath allowed himself a small smile before telling them to rest easy, he was just another Black Shield after all. They shared a few jokes, grumbled something about 'that bloody feast and those bloody blue bloods up there', before he left them to their duties and continued on. It seemed like it was going to be a quiet night, though if Horath had learnt anything from his years of traveling with the Servants, it was that quiet nights usually turned out to be the least quiet of all. May the Monarch have mercy on them all.

Warren's word echoed once more in his ear, a whispered order that he didn't exactly wish to follow. Sleep still weighed on him, so the duty of providing extra protection to the whole family seemed like an impossible task. He stood next to a table, partially lifted by the wild yet alluring dance of the exotic beauty on stage. The way she shook her hips put a spark in his groins that lifted his dark eyes. Brewed some awareness to his situation.

The quick tempo of the fiddler convinced him to clap along with the elated crowd, though his brows and eyes were staid with a natural sedative.

“The show is quite good, is it not?” Saewine turned to a short noble woman, her blonde hair pulled up around her full face. Her hazel eyes staring cheerfully at him.

“Indeed,” he answered politely, his instinctive etiquette appearing. “She's a rarity I must agree, though I can't shake the feeling that I've seen her somewhere. Is she famous?”

The woman continued to clap along. “I don't believe so.” Before long the two of them fell into the numb gray and the performance became a background distraction. “You should not speak such praise of a commoner. She was probably raised up in a brothel or some similar thrash can. How else would she be so good at shaking those fat hips of her's.” The woman giggled lightly.

And Saewine suddenly found her to be the ugliest of company. Had she not just given the woman a compliment just a few minutes ago? His forced enrollment with the Black Shields had fogged the black truth of being a noble. Everyone wore very hypocritical and demonesque masks. With a fake chuckle Saewine stared at her deadpan, her lack of humanity returning his sleep to him.

“Excuse me but I'm actually on duty now. I must take my leave.” he said with a bow.

“D-duty?” She glanced him up and down with her eyes alone. “You have the face of a noble but you're dressed like a common thug. I mistook you. My father would kill me if he knew I talked to such thrash.”

Saewine held back a snarl before making a quick and stiff leave. While he patrolled the vicinity of the King's court, two different family's noticed him and spoke gentile to him. One was particularly stuck on the death of his brother and the other was sure that he could make the Bloodworth family even more prestigious through the Black Shields. He wanted to scream that he was not the fighter his brother was, that Heron's death was still heavily on his mind. But instead he smiled and nodded until they left him.

Sliding into a empty chair once more, Saewine laid his chin into his folded arms and looked on at the festivities. He stared dully at the King and his family. They all seemed so laid back and yet very hard to approach. It was like a physical blockade was keeping the normal masses at bay. Why are we really here? Are we the royal guard now? Or is this some publicity stunt?

He turned to close his eyes and shade his face beneath his arms but was met with a brown-haired woman instead seated beside him. Her light grey eyes seemed to storm a inner-strength that he avoided and her exquisite dressed drew his attention to her frame and legs. A dry laugh left him as felt the sour words of the noble woman from before. While he thought, he stared at her unbidden.

Another noble? If she shoos me away like common garbage I'll bring all the pull of the Bloodworth family onto her own. He sighed openly. Even still ... I suppose I should maintain face. My father would not hear of any nonsense from me.

Sounding as tired as he looked, Saewine spoke from behind the elbow of his arms. "You don't mind me laying my head hear for a bit do you? You see, the music is a bit deafening and a headache has sprung up suddenly--May I say before you answer that you look amazing in that gown," he sprinkled on top.

Caught in a daze, Sara was stirred by presence of another- a man. A man in the Black Shields uniform, at that. Her eyes had been deep out, past the initial crowd around them, exploring the mannerisms of the huddled crowds, and was amused to find how they separated themselves by group. It’d seem Lords of similar region often were together, which in her mind made sense, they knew each other, of course they would stand bunched together. The girl was hoping to find a Lord she recognized from northern Grosswik to lead her to her uncle, but even that was impossible with so many bodies. Her grey eyes turned away from the crowd as that man sat beside her, regarding him curiously, just as he began to speak.

A soft smile crossed her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes as one hand came graciously to her breastbone, fingertips pressed softly to the warm skin, “Thank you, Sir-…” Her hand lifted then, to push back a feather of hair behind her ear, “You are too kind. I don’t mind in the slightest, but it’s not my mind that matters. Mr. Hoffman is here, is he not? Mr. Terryn Hoffman? I do not mean to nag you-…but for your own sake, it might be best if you sat up, looked vigilant.” As she spoke, her pleasant smile never faltered, finding his nonchalant attitude humorous. Surely, he was making a joke, no actual guard would ever think sleeping while you were supposed to be watching over the Crowned Prince would be acceptable. If Terryn found him here like this, he’d likely be livid. Sara couldn’t even imagine her father’s reaction, usually such a calm, steady man, but to see this mockery of soldiery would awake demons within him.

“Here, speak with me then, that ought to keep you awake. I am Lady Sara Medved, daughter of Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved- of the Black Shields.” She added, giving him a sweet grin because that information was probably startling. He could not have predicted that the girl he would slump beside would be the daughter of an officer, a influential one at that. Politely, she offered the man her ivory gloved hand, the bracelet of pearls falling down her wrist toward the elbow with a pleasant clanking.

“And you, Sir?” Though he would know just by looking at her, she was still fairly young, the young lady carried herself with a sort of finesse and politeness very becoming to her. She spoke with a pleasant accent to her word, careful to take the time and annunciate, and unlike the other, she seemed to care little if he was a commoner or noble. Sara had no way of knowing then, and she’d assumed wrongly that because he was a grunt soldier in the Black Shields, he surely was a layman. Also unlike the other, Sara lacked the same bias, having lived among commoners her entire life, and though she might have preferred to speak to a noble, not out of hate, but for her enthrallment in their lifestyle, any conversation at this point was welcomed

---

Caterina sat at the table patiently, waiting for anything to happen. She was looking at the main stage at the center of the large hall, which had a man talking loudly getting people's attention. Then a small amount of smoke appeared, strangely enough, causing some of the ladies to yell out in fear as other men gripped their swords momentarily. All calmed down again when the smoke cleared and revealed a woman, that Caterina recognised as the traveller woman that had told her 'future' earlier. The moment of recognition caused her to inch forwards in her seat, looking closely at the woman. She danced strangely, in a way unknown to the court. As such many women looked away, but it was mainly the men that seemed to enjoy the dancing. A short glance at her father revealed to Caterina that he, too, was watching closely. Queen Anne, Caterina's mother was also watching, although doubts could be placed on her interests. Atleast father wasn't gawking - the woman was pretty, so mother would surely excuse him. No doubt she felt some attraction to the woman too. Caterina glanced back, and noticed the woman was now laying down. It was getting a bit too much for her, so she got up and walked away to the right, behind the many tables and seats, looking around for someone interesting to talk to. Sure enough, she noticed Terryn ahead of her, aproximately twenty meters alongside the side of the hall, standing near a pillar. She was headed for him, but got distracted by a man that looked like a Black Shield soldier, and a lady that resembled a lady-in-waiting, or perhaps even a noblewoman. She had a face that Caterina had never seen before.

Being a princess meant, to Caterina, you could talk to any person you wanted to. And as such she stepped right up to the two people, stopping behind them with a cheerful “Hello,” in her high pitched feminine voice. She would wave lightly at the two of them, smiling widely at them, before continueing her introduction. “I'm princess Caterina Meitelde Grochain, the daughter of king Gregar and queen Anne.” she'd say with remarkable ease in her voice, as if she was having no trouble with it that she was the princess. It also didn't seem to sound like she thought it was anything special, when in reality it was probably something special to the both of these people. Caterina would look at Sara, and then Saewine. Her face was one of wonderment, wondering why there was a guard nearly sleeping on the table, and a lady-in-waiting talking to him. “... and.. you are?” she said, slowly, to ask about their names, and who they are.

“'tis not often I see a Black Shield sleeping on duty. Surely.. my father would not be appreciative of that.” she said, with a slight smile, though subtle at first. “Neither Terryn. Actually, he's a good friend of mine! I should call him over, to discipline you.” She would wait a moment to see the reaction of both the lady and the soldier, before smirking subtly again and smiling at Saewine. “I'm kidding. It's tiresome, these feasts, so I know how you feel. I think this is my third feast this month..” she said, crossing her arms and looking around in a bored manner. She was remarkably nonchalant for a princess, definetely a different brand of princess compared to her sisters, though the eldest was definetely just as cheerful as Caterina was. Once she was done looking around she'd look back to Sara, noting how beautiful her dress was compared to hers. Suddenly, Caterina felt underdressed, although that was through no fault of Sara. “Oh, what a nice dress! Who made this? Was it the tailor in Coedwin? They have the nicest fabric there!” she said, although any other woman would frown at Coedwin's fabric, since it was rough and thick, not suited for feasts like these where it would get very hot very quickly. It also looked more like something a soldier would wear. But that perfectly suited Caterina, who was always more interested in the martial parts of royal life than the feasts. Something her father didn't always appreciate, but managed to cope with as long as Caterina did as she was supposed to.

Caterina would bend over swiftly to feel the fabric, holding it between her fingers gently to not disturb the dress too much. The colour was definetely nice according to Caterina, but the fabric was a bit too flowy and thin for her liking - something she often struggled with. “Hmm, I'm sure my sister Aren would love this dress!” she said, before looking over to Aren who was sitting at the royal table, enjoying the festivities and entertainment on the center stage, along with her husband. Erica was still sitting alone at this point, looking at the doorway to the feasting hall in a focussed manner. Hm.. so she was truly waiting for that knight. Would father improve? The slight distraction gave Sara and Saewine time to talk to eachother or Caterina for a few seconds before a large, muscular hand with a large silver ring with a Monarchist cross got put on Caterina's shoulder.

---

Terryn Hoffmann

---

Terryn couldn't help but scoff at Warren's remark - and here he was thinking that Warren was smart. The guy may have been right about Caterina, but if he really expected Terryn to stand idly by when Caterina was threatened he should think again. Terryn was more likely to throw away his life for Caterina than for Dorran, for that matter, but that was something that Terryn wouldn't want to voice so publicly. He might be a liked person in court, there were plenty of figures that hated him for being chosen as commander, instead of their son, or they themselves. It would be best to simply shut up and nod at Warren for now. “Aye, I know, don't worry. Get back to your post.” he'd say, directing Warren back to his post. Atleast Warren had the sense to instruct others, although it really wasn't neccesary, and somewhat disrespectful, to order around a superior. He'd remember this for later, when giving them some talk or something. It'd definetely come up at some time, that much was sure.

He glanced shortly at Dorran once Warren had dissapeared again, making sure to keep an eye on the people he was talking to. Sawarim assassins were everywhere, and over the years, they even mixed in with the Broacien people. Most of them posed as slave traders - the only accepted group of Sawarim faith followers in Broacien - but some also posed as Monarchist converts. Dorran seemed to be mostly fine, however, and it was now that more Black Shields also started arriving. No doubt had they been sent here by Nikolas, since it was obvious that the men were bored and that they had too many men outside, and not enough inside. Orders of the king however, overruled that. The only way around that was to simply send more men once they'd finished their rounds, and make the inside a part of that route anyway. Four more men walked inside, ones that Terryn didn't outright recognise himself, but they were obviously selected on their armor. They all wore some form of acceptable armor, most of them wearing partial plate, with cuir bouilli underneath. Another wore an aketon, but wielded a crossbow and had a small quiver of bolts on his right leg. It looked pretty intimidating, but it gave Terryn a good feeling to have someone with ranged capabilities behind him in case he needed it. Besides, a bolt would go through pretty much anything that would come into the hall with a weapon.

However that feeling of safety was quickly making way for a feeling of annoyance when he glanced to his left, to check just what was going on around there. In that short moment of looking over there he had spotted Saewine sitting down with his head on the table, then getting up to speak to a lady that Terryn recognised as.. could it be? Sara? And then there was the princess approaching. Terryn let out a heavy sigh and stepped forwards towards the group of three, his footsteps going unnoticed in the loud noises of the room. He reached right up to the princess, standing behind her with a rather tall figure when compared to the princess, even more so since she was bending over to touch the fabric of Sara's dress. He slowly placed his hands on the small petite princess' shoulder, before speaking up. “My princess,” he'd open, but not looking at her, but rather at Saewine. No doubt Sara had a role to play in this too. “if I may be so free, Saewine here is supposed to be guarding your brother, Dorran. It's your father's orders, I'm afraid, so you'll have to come talk to him some other time.” His words were respectful, because of the princess' stature but also because of the company. If they hadn't been here, Saewine would've gotten an earful of swearing.

Now, Saewine was expected to get back up and stand at attention, and shut his mouth while he was at it. Terryn wouldn't tolerate another slip up, especially from a nobleman like Saewine. It was hard to beat the entitledness of a noble out of them, and Saewine was proving to be more of a crybaby than a soldier. And if there was anything that Terryn hated.. it was that. Bloody crybabies weren't good for more than fleeing battle and falling dead in a ditch a minute later. And if Terryn could help it, he was the one to strike them down. Retreats weren't allowed unless ordered, or a flank absolutely crumbled. Saewine..? No, he'd flee before he even saw the first clash of blades in front of him.

---

It didn't take long for the next esteemed guest arrived. A young knight wearing a set of sturdy partial plate armor, adorned with a painting of the Monarchist cross on the front of the plate, in black. Behind him was a cape, a dark burgundy in color, with a black line at the bottom. As he entered, heads turned almost as much as they did when Dorran entered, although for a different reason entirely. His stride was self assured, almost arrogant, but he held himself well and shone out pride, both of himself and the uniform he wore. This was the knight that everyone had been waiting for - Servant of the Monarch Gregar Jeremiah Bluewall, preferred candidate for the title of Grandservant of the Monarch, and effectively one of the most influential knights within the Servants. He was also named after the king, which did him many favors with the king, and also meant he was a good candidate to marry with Erica, Caterina's unmarried older sister, the middle of the three sisters.

He approached the royal table, gracefully, as Erica got up from her chair and walked around the table, down the steps to greet her 'friend'. She did a small curtsy, befitting her position as princess, and thus it wasn't too low. The young knight Jeremiah followed suit by grabbing her hand softly and bowing lightly, kissing it gently before releasing her again. After that, he escorted her back to her table, and took seat next to her, with Erica on his left, and Aren's husband on his right. He greeted Aren's husband shortly before focussing all his attention on the princess again, discussing matters of religion and war with the Sawarim followers with her.

A few moments later Jeremiah would beckon Warren, who'd be the guard closest to him most likely, and thus asked him to get closer to the table. As soon as Warren would get close enough, Jeremiah would speak to him. “Good man, be a friend and fetch me some mead. I hope you can understand that if Sawarim assassins show up, I wouldn't want to save my princess' life with a dry mouth.. or are you going to protect me?” he'd say, with a slight grin, the obvious jab at Warren being intended more as a joke at his expense, but the princess laughed, so for Jeremiah it'd obviously pay off. Warren wouldn't have to worry about losing face, because after all nobody would recognise him in the Black Shields' uniform, but his honour might be harmed by being asked to deliver something as simple as mead. But dogs that bark at their owners are often treated badly. It was truly up to Warren what he'd do, but Jeremiah was quite a renowned swordsman, although obviously not as good as Warren in his younger years. But now.. who could tell?

Saewine took Sara's hand in his own with a practiced tenderness. “Nice to meet you, Lady Medved. I'am lor-” He caught himself mid-sentence, his eyes flickering away from hers in that same moment. “I'm Saewine. Saewine Bloodworth. He concluded.

He had no desire to openly relate to that name unless it could guarantee his freedom from the Black Shields. For one reason or the other, he doubted Sara could help him. With a speculating eye, he considered the pleasantries of sleeping and the company before him. She wasn't hideous but she wasn't overly pretty either. She was ... above average, her powerful eyes and slender frame made sure of that.

If he had been at the Keep though, he wouldn't have sacrificed sleep for her presence.

Still though, it was not like he could sleep forever. Eventually the Commander-Priest would rudely awaken him. He thought back to the phenomenal string of curses the elder man had directed towards Dorran yesterday. Quite rude indeed. Too rude for me anyway, I guess I'll take, Lady Sara up on her offer. Nothing better to do.

“You have not been a noblewoman for long have you?” he questioned, thinking to the very small but noticeable clues. For one she had not retreated from the presence of a jaw-stubble soldier. Of course some women could find that attractive but he doubted they would his, he had not touched it since its appearance. Only irritably scratched. In all his years, it was nearly the first time he had seen any hair on his face.

He had waited for her answer with a overall tired expression and only a slight glint in his eyes. But it never came. Instead, a cheerful hello introduced itself to them. Immediately Saewine raised out the chair, placed a palm on the pommel of his blade, and bowed lowly. His shaggy black strands hid his face well as he looked towards the ground.

When the Princess asked for their names, Saewine slowly raised his head and stared her in the eyes. “Forgive me, Princess for resting. I will continue with my name now. I'am Lord Saewine Era Bloodworth, son of Elign and Tessa Bloodworth, and younger brother to the late Heron Bloodworth. I … serve your family willingly in these trying times.” He nearly kicked himself for stumbling through a forced introduction, not to mention he took his family's name back rather quickly.

I have the resolve of a baby piglet.

It was near instant. The look of shock and fear at the mention of calling Terryn. When he caught princess Caterina's mischievous smile, he knew she was only jesting with him. It roused a honest smirk on his face and he found himself becoming lax. “You would have dead soldier if you had. Trust me on that one,” he joked darkly.

While the Princess had played with Sara's gown, Saewine found himself looking over at the eagerly waiting Princess Erica. She was just as beautiful, if not even more so than the painting. A slight tug at his heart was quickly replaced with punch to his pride. No way could he, nor would he ever, have a chance to be with her. It was impossible. Though he was noble, there was quite a great space between himself and the royal family. Namely the Black Shields.

A quiet yearning parted his lips before he noticed Terryn approaching. His teeth met each other as he stood to attention. His broad chest would poke out from its usual cover as he lifted his chin up. Though vague, he knew Terryn's words to the Princess were really a dreadful symphony of curses to him. The black-eyed youth let out a defiant breath from his nostrils out of reflex. The jolly noise from the entertainment flowed throughout but it didn't make his encounter any less tense.

“Sir, if I may explain in full,” he started, but quickly got lost in his own pity as he watched Erica's closest candidate for marriage arrive. Saewine mentally compared himself to the Knight, only be disappointed. The guy had confidence and knew how to fight; one could tell just from watching his strides. But more so than that, he had already had a seat at the table with Erica.

Well fantasies were never meant to last long anyway.

The young woman sat at the edge of the stage with her feet dangling back and forth. The performance had ended and the stage was being prepared for the next performer. The entertainers worked at a leisurely pace since the feast would undoubtedly go on into the early hours they were in no rush to send out the next act, lest they would run out of entertainment. The entertainment would be the only thing to keep the guests awake, that and a good drink. Floure was fanning herself furiously trying to chase away the heat that was tormenting her. The fan was made of black lace to match her gown and while it was equally beautiful it did nothing to cool her down, most of the air passed through the lace. After a while of fervent waving back and forth the young woman concluded that the act of fanning made her feel more hot. She would sprain a wrist if she carried on like this. Letting out an irritated sigh she flicked the fan over her shoulder not really caring where it landed.

It wasn't like she could keep any of the things they'd given her anyway. At the end of the night they would give her the coin she'd earned and they'd rather be rid of her sooner than later. Floure knew a thing or two about nobles and she knew exactly what they thought of her.
A common whore that's what she was to them, this wasn't her world. She belonged on the roads with her family. This was just.....a means to an end. Once it was safe to return she would be gone in the blink of an eye, leaving behind everything and everyone. She'd done it before. But she was on a royal feast for the sake of the Gods and she didn't want to ruin her mood by being all gloom and doom. It was high time to mingle and have a fun evening, maybe even earn some extra coin while she was at it.

Floure jumped of the stage landing neatly on the ground with a soft accompaniment of ringing bells. She realized she was still wearing her anklets. A smile appeared on her face being very amused with herself for some reason. The young woman shook her head and bent down to change back into her slippers. Once she was finished she wandered the floors, trying to see if she could spot someone familiar. The chance she would recognize someone was very slim for two reasons. She wasn't a noble and she hadn't been here that long. If she'd been around longer she'd usually recognize some of her clients from either one of her trades. As she walked she saw multiple groups of people taking amongst themselves, when she passed them they lowered their voices to a whisper. Gossiping about her no doubt, the shameless stares of many a man confirmed her suspicions.

Usually she was oblivious to it, used to the incessant attention but now it began to affect her. The way they looked, their eyes seeming to stare through her gown. As a woman who traded pleasure for coin it was strange she felt this way. But maybe it wasn't the fact they stared at her with hungry eyes, it was her loneliness that allowed her to feel violated. It was a gaping hole which opened and closed unsuspectingly. When it was closed, she was happy in the company of joyous folk but when it was open she felt it eat away at her. Without her family she didn't know who to turn to or who she was. Even in a room full of people she could feel lonely, like she did not belong. She subconsciously wrapped her arms around her body in an effort to comfort herself.

Floure walked aimlessly through the crowds, her eyes glazed over in deep thoughts of misery, her shoulders slumped. She'd turned from a joyful dancer into a sad excuse of an entertainer. Nothing could seemingly be done to lift her spirits, perhaps only the arrival of a Traveler brother or sister. Yet the chance of that happening was near non existent. She didn't pay any attention to where she was going and she found herself looking at the table where the princess was seated. It was the same princess who'd come to visit her earlier to have her fortune told. Only too late did Floure realize who else was standing with her, the commander of the Black Shields. The man she'd been evading ever since she'd arrived at Rot Donor. She wanted to move but she couldn't, somehow her body was frozen in place as if caught by a sudden frost.
What was she going to do now?

Horath whistled a little tune to himself as he continued his patrol around the city. It was a chant he had often heard back in the Sultanate, some kind of religious song that they liked. When he had asked his brother, Aemon, what it was about, he and chuckled and told him that it was rather new, calling the people to march against the northern infidels and retake their rightful lands. Aemon, along with Horath's sisters and mother, were careful not to reveal their true faith, claiming to be Monarchists. They hid it pretty well too. Aemon was a merchant, often traveling to the Sultanate and brining back their exotic goods. Given the fact that Broacienian merchants generally did not venture into the Sultanate, it made him a rather prosperous merchant, and his sisters helped him, sometimes traveling to the Sultanate with him. The Servants had kept an eye on them in the beginning, but as their trading went on and they became used to them - along with Horath's position in the Servants - the Servants stopped watching them. Horath knew that if his father had been alive he would have been proud of Aemon, he had created a little monopoly for himself and was very well off for it. Last he had sat with him, Aemon had told Horath of all his plans to get to the nation across the western mountains - apparently there was a route around the mountains through the Sultanate. Aemon was certain that expanding his trade network west was the way forward.

As Horath continued, his thoughts were interrupted by some noise in a street up ahead. He hurried along and turned the corner to find a group of Black Shields walking off. He quickly hailed them and asked them where they were off to.
'We are still on duty, you can't just be walking off...mates,' Horath added.
'Naah, we been told to go up t'the feast. 'parantly they needs more ov us up there,' one of them responded. There were three in total, two of them wore partial plate, with cuir bouilli underneath. The third wore an aketon, but wielded a crossbow and had a small quiver of bolts on his right leg. The one with the crossbow pointed at Horath and waved for him to come closer.
'Actually, your armour looks pretty good, we could use you up there. Come along with us, there's nothing going on down here,' he was rather well-spoken and Horath suspected he was of noble birth, though he could not be certain. What noble would carry a crossbow, after all?
'I have been told to ensure none are shirking their duties...' Horath put up a little argument, but that was quickly batted aside and he was soon following the three up to the feast.

When they walked in, the man with the crossbow signaled to a few pillars and each man nodded and made their way towards one of them. Horath was not entirely sure if the crossbowman had the authority to give them orders, but he guessed that if he was a noble, he could do pretty much what he wanted, and so he made his way to one such pillar and kept his eyes peeled for anything suspicious. There was definitely more going on in here than outside, that was for sure. As he stood there, he noted the other Black Shields standing on guard. There was the undoubted form of the Commander Terryn, making his way to what appeared to be a Black Shield shirking his duties. Farther off was a huge man Horath did not recognise, and near the royal table was another Black Shield who Horath immediately recognised as the famed Warren Wyk, the Redsand Butcher, the Devil of the Desert. He had never met the man personally, but he had taken great joy in hearing of his exploits and had seen him walking around with his group of mercenaries. On the table, next to one of the princesses was another man Horath immediately recognised, and a cold hatred ran down his spine. It was all he could do to restrain himself from marching across to the table and cleave that bastard in two: Gregar Jeremiah Bluewall. One of the leading figures in the scheme which had seen Horath's family, along with various merchants and lower nobility, attacked by assassins.

He calmed himself and looked away. One day he would have his vengeance against them all, but today was not the day. In his attempts to keep his eyes away from his sworn foe, he spotted a woman walking glumly through the crowd of nobles. At first he did not register her appearance clearly, other than the fact that she was, quite clearly, not a noble. She came to a halt in front of him and her face became yellow with fear when her eyes fell upon Terryn, who was not too far away. Now that she was closer and he had the chance to get a better look at her, he realised that he had seen this woman before...

'Floure?!' he blurted out, louder than he meant to, but no one noticed in the already noisy feast hall. He did not know how he had not recognised her immediately, though admittedly quite a while had passed since he saw her. Almost a year in fact, back when Horath was still a Knight of the Servants, before the scheming blades and plots of those whom he thought were his allies dug into his back.

It was the Knight-Priest Jonathon Cragg who brought her in, claiming that she was a witch and heretic and had attempted to seduce him.
'The Monarch preserve us all. Praises are to him for the moral and upright characters of those who faithfully serve him. Thanks to him, such temptations are easily brushed off,' he had told Horath brashly. It was rather ironic that Horath knew just how immoral, decadent and craven Jonathon was. If there was any reason the poor girl had been brought in, it was probably due to rejecting his approaches or somehow irritating him. There was certainly no feeling of moral duty to the monarch in this particular Knight-Priest's breast. Given the fact that Horath knew Floure and was very well-acquainted with her grandmother did not help him believe Jonathon very much.

Floure's grandmother had, during one of her journeys, come across the young Evren Trejik Al'Montsar - Horath's father - as he was walking on the road. He had been very young then, having just taken leave of his father's lands. Floure's grandmother, then still a woman in her thirties, had taken pity upon the young man and taken him with her to Coedwin. The old woman would often visit Evren when she passed by Coedwin - and Horath would delight at the gifts she brought with her. But more than that, he delighted at the wild tales the old woman spun, and many were the nights that he would fall asleep by the fire as she awed him and his brothers with one tale or another. When he had been younger, Floure would accompany her grandmother there. Horath remembered, though it was a haze, his ten year old self staring at the one year old Floure in her grandmother's arms.

As Floure grew, the little girl would often run about the city with the adventurous Horath on the occasions the Travelers stopped in Coedwin, and when Horath became older still, he would visit Floure's grandmother and watch as the eight year old Floure was taught the ways of the Travelers.
'Haha! How'd you do that?' Horath had laughed once when she had read his palm, but the little girl only tapped the side of her nose in imitation of her grandmother, 'that little trick will get you in trouble one day though, watch out whose palm you read,' he warned her with a smile. She had only poked her tongue out at him and run off.

'Yes,' Horath replied to Jonathon, 'may the Monarch preserve us all...' and with that, he had excused himself.
'I think I will take her to her cell, Brother,' he had bowed before approaching the chained young woman and taking her chains. When his eyes met hers he feigned ignorance and kept his eyes cold and pulled her along roughly - gentleness, he knew, would simply raise eyebrows. Not that Horath had shied away from raising eyebrows in the past.

He had led her down some stairs and asked her - in as disinterested a tone as he could manage - what had happened. When they had reached the cell he had unlocked her chains and pushed her in lightly before locking the door. The cell was mostly underground, though there was a single barred window which let air and sunlight in. He looked around at the dark and empty passageway before looking back into the cell.

'I told you that your little tricks would get you into trouble one day,' he said, his cold facade melting and a smile breaking across his face, 'your gran won't be happy about this at all,' looking around carefully, he slipped a hand through the bars and told her to bring her hands forward before he dropped the key into it.
'Tonight, when the sun sets, we will be having a meal with the Prince-Priest Marcus Harloin,' he whispered, 'there will not be many guards and you should be able to slip out easily with your skills,' he paused for a few seconds before adding one last thing.
'And, lock the cell when you leave. If you leave the key with one of my brothers, I will be able to take it back at a later point,' with that, he had nodded to her and backed away.

'Is the heretic locked up, Brother?' Jonathon had asked him that night as they sat eating. Horath had looked up and given him a quizzical look.
'But would you not know that she is, Brother? You were checking up on her every half hour or so,' at this comment, Jonathon blurted out the soup he was drinking before quickly wiping his mouth and grinning sheepishly.
'Just...uh...testing you, Brother. Knew you were on watch today...haha,' Horath allowed himself a few chuckles before returning to his soup.
'It's good to know that you are so dedicated to ensuring heretics do not escape, Brother. You never know what these witches might do. For all we know she was sitting in there gibbering some hellish words which would see her escape the Monarch's justice. That would not do, would it now?' he did not look at Jonathon, but the man was giving Horath a sightly freaked out look - this Horath really did take this magic nonsense seriously, didn't he.

Later that night, with the meal over, Jonathon had made his way down to the cells to check on the girl again while Horath made his way round the city, checking the house of each of his brothers to see if Floure had passed by. It turned out she had passed by Rejys' home, the farthest one from the cells and therefore the last one Horath checked.
'Did she tell you where she is headed?' Horath had asked, to which Rejys had shaken his head.
'No, just said she had to leave quickly. Said to tell her gran that she'll be fine and not to worry about 'er,' Horath had nodded and returned to the keep where Jonathon was causing a fuss.

'Who let 'er out? Where is that damn wench?' he was roaring. Horath made his way to the storage room where the keys were kept and returned the key to that particular cell before joining the others around Jonathon.
'She can't have gotten out on 'er own now could she? We've a traitor among us!' he was not declaring, much to the anger of those present - it was no good to go about declaring that a traitor was among the Servants. Horath, however, knew that there was a traitor - there was no greater traitor than Jonathon Cragg and his like. They had betrayed themselves and had betrayed the Monarch, and terrible indeed would be the punishment of those like him.
'Brother, you are the one who apprehended this witch. You know more than any of us how powerful her arts were. So much so that you were checking on her every half hour. It is not surprising that she managed to cast a spell to escape while we were eating - those two hours were more than enough time, I would say. You should have gone and checked on her during the meal too,' Jonathon looked towards Horath, his eyes wide at first, but then they slowly shrunk as he scowled.
'Yes, Brother. You are...right,' he had growled. Jonathon had been one of the plotters and schemers.

And now, of all the possible to places to bump into Floure, he found her here at a feast in the capital.
'What in the Monarch's name are you doing here?' he hissed in shock, this time lowering his voice slightly and unconsciously stepping towards her.

---

It was the tall stately figure of Horath that made her eyes widen in surprise and her heart fill with joy. He looked very much like a Broacion noble man if only for his olive complexion, which betrayed a drop of desert blood. He was a joining of two different worlds, as she was herself. They had grown up together, he lived in Coedwin to which she traveled often to deliver supplies and other goods or services to the Servants. For as long as she could remember he had been part of her life. They'd spent their childhoods together and according to her grandmother even before that he'd seen her as a small babe. She loved him, like she did any of her brothers. Even when he became a Servant it never changed the bond they shared. He had his calling in life as did she, it was nothing more than that. So they had parted ways after that.

The Travelers rarely if ever met the Servants in their abode. Goods and services were always provided in a small nameless village or town close by, never within the castle walls. It had been quite a long time since she'd seen Horath. He had saved her life when he freed her of the Servants and she had not expected to see him ever again. To be reunited at a feast hosted by the king was a strange coincidence which Floure found hard to believe. She was never one to consider coincidence as a valid reason. It did not exist and coincidence was a push of the faiths into the right path. Maybe this was her opportunity to thank him. How did you repay someone who saved your life?

Her happiness at seeing Horath was short lived when she felt a strong hand wrap around her arm and drag her to an off corner of the feasting hall. Horath watched in shocked silence as Floure was dragged off right before his eyes. For a few seconds he did not quite register what had happened, but he quickly shook himself from his shock and turned his head to see Terryn dragging her off. He was not doing it in a friendly manner at all, either. It reminded him slightly of the time he dragged Floure off in chains - he wondered if it had looked as bad as what he now saw.
Without hesitation, he made to follow them, planning to give the commander a good earful.

Floure suspected what was going on. It was the commander of the Black Shields Terryn who was forcing her to speak with him. She had purposefully avoided his presence during her short time with the Black Shields. He was a very intimidating man and she wasn’t easily intimidated by men. There was always a way to get what she wanted, a sweet smile, a gentle touch or a whispered promise. None of that would help her with Terryn which meant she couldn’t manipulate him to do what she wanted.
When he commented on the way she dressed all she could really do was laugh. After all it was the announcer Frederick who had her change into a dress of his liking. So Terryn was insulting a royal servant, not her. If he was out to scare her he was succeeding, even though she would never let it show. She wanted say something, shoot him some witty reply but he wouldn’t give her a chance. The young woman crossed her arms in front of her body and frowned at the man in front of her. She was determined not to let him get at her. Still Floure realized that it wasn’t impossible for her to be violated in the way Terryn described. She wasn’t surrounded by her family anymore and her safety when plying her trade wasn’t guaranteed because of that. It sent cold shivers down her spine, to think of what may happen.

Horath had not gotten too far before a voice rose up above the rest, screaming, 'Lord! Lord! They're here!'
Horath turned around immediately and surveyed the scene. It had seemed like Terryn was threatening Floure, but Horath was on duty and it seemed like something terrible was afoot - guards running into feasts screaming their heads off never brought good news, that was for sure.

Floure was more than ready to make her leave and was about to walk back to Horath when the entire feasting hall erupted into chaos. Arrows were flying everywhere, which came from enemies she could not spot from her place in the corner. Terryn was gone before she could blink and even though she had wanted to be rid of him, she felt her life would be in better hands with the commander close by. She was a lover not a fighter. The nobles panicked as well as the servants and people were dropping to the floor left and right, arrows sticking out of their backs. She didn’t have time to stare at them for too long and let the horror of what she was witnessing settle in. People were pushing each other to reach the exit. Floure began to realize that the corner in which she was standing didn’t have any doors or windows, no way out. She fought back the panic that was threatening to overtake her, trying her hardest not to give into it and end up like everyone else. Running for their lives. Instead she carefully stepped towards the wall, facing the hall so she could see what was going on exactly. Standing with her back to the wall she did not understand what she was seeing. All she knew was that she wanted to make it out alive. She reached down to the garter strapped to her leg and took out the knife that was fastened there. Floure held it behind her back in case she would need to defend herself.

Immediately her eyes went to search for Horath, wanting to know if he was safe. She spotted him in the crowd, trying to help as many people escape as he could. Floure waited to see if he’d notice her, not daring to leave her spot and venture into the crowds. Upon the death of the poor guard, Horath had immediately positioned himself before a few drunk nobles and told them, as respectfuly as he could, to get the bloody hell out. That did not calm them down at all, and they ran off, trampling another drunken man as they did. He managed to push aside the tramplers and help the bloodied drunk to his feet, before pointing him in the general direction of the stampeding crowd. At this rate, Horath thought to himself, these fools were more of a danger to each other than any Cherwinian attackers could hope to be.
He could now see the detestable Jeremiah charging the Cherwinians, followed by a few others, while Terryn was handing out commands to some of the Black Shields. He left Horath to his own devices, however. Perhaps he had not seen him, or perhaps he did not need him, but Horath did not mind. He considered, momentarily, using this opportunity to corner Jeremiah and gut him, but something about that did not sit right with him. Keeping his shield raised against any incoming arrows, he looked around the hall to see where Floure had disappeared to. It did not take him long to spot the terrified figure pressed against the wall in one of the corners of the hall. While it was certainly out of the way, it did make her a very clear target - though a woman cowering in a corner was certainly not the kind of target one would be aiming to kill...in an ideal world.

He quickly backed away from the raging battle on his side of the hall and made his way towards her, keeping an eye on the seven footmen and three halberdiers in case Jeremiah and his group faltered - Horath hoped they would not, it would be a true tragedy if that sceming, plotting bastard met his demise at the hands of someone else. Then there were those damn archers, shooting merrily away into the frightened crowd.

They were very soon set upon by one of the Black Shields. His stance looked rather familiar, and Horath was rather surprised when the man single-handedly took on the three archers, putting one of them down for good before turning to a second and spitting a hail of blood into his face. Only then did Horath recognise Warren Wyk, the famed Redsand Butcher, the Devil of the Sand. As Warren began dueling the last remaining archer, a terrifyingly accurate crossbow skewered the side of the Cherwinian's neck - the work of the man who had led Horath to the feast. Horath quickly reached Floure and signalled for her to follow him.

'You really have a way with finding trouble wherever you go, don't you,' he muttered half-jokingly - though her apparant misfortune was rather ironic for a self-proclaimed fortune teller! He scanned the hall once more, noting that the stampeding crowd was still trying to push and shove its way out.
'You need to get out of here, getting through that crowd won't be easy, but I'm sure your quick feet will get you to safety. Come, I'll get you to the doors, the crowd should thin out considerably when you're past the door's bottleneck,' he gave the fighters across the hall one more look, wishing he could join the fray. Protecting family came first though.

The cheerful music banged on through the hall even after the traveller lady had finished her dancing. There were flutes, drums, violins, all kinds of musical instruments mixing up to form a play that resembled more of a tavern song for drunkards. But then again, by now half the crowd had already fallen over drunk, face first into the table. So in a way, the scene displayed more of a tavern than a feasting hall. Even the king was enjoying himself, drinking merrily at his table with close friends of his, with the queen at his side, who seemed bored of the feast already. Never the less the conversation at the table continued merrily. “I stabbed tha' boar, this big I tell ya'!” one obviously drunk man bawked, drawing back both his arms to demonstrate just how large the boar was. “Oh, reaaaaaaaaally, Charles? When was that?” another said, eyeing the other man suspiciously. The king leaned forwards to listen more closely, meanwhile taking a large gulp from his mead. “'twas last week, not ah lie, ah tell yew!” the drunk man said, somewhat angrily, but not sober enough to voice that. The other man shook his head and looked at the table, before looking up and laughing really loudly. “Bastard! Ye really are as dumb as that boar ye' 'stabbed'! I was with you all week last week, ey?! Remember tha'? Ye was drunk on yer' arse all week! Shut it, Charles!” All the other man laughed just as loud as the former, all but one anyway, as the drunkard suddenly started getting more quiet and introverted, before he yelled out again. “OI! Look at that paintin' mates, it's got all kinda' colors!” More laughing ensued, but this time not mockingly. One could wonder how people this ridiculous and stupid could get to be noblemen, and all you'd have to do for an answer was look at the amount of inbreeding per family.

Outside, rapid footsteps went across the bridge, of what sounded like one man. There were whimpers and wheezing as the man crossed, out of breath as it seemed, before the footsteps went from a wooden underfloor onto the dirt path that lead to the castle. “T-the.. they're here!” he said to one of the guards, who nodded at him pretending to understand just what this man was talking about, and let him past, since the man was wearing an officers uniform. The guard opened the door for the officer and, once the man was inside, shut it again. The darkness hid the fact that the officer had several bloodsplatters over his surcoat, and as such the guard didn't exactly know to stand on guard. The rapid footsteps picked up again, heading through the main hall where court was held daily, to the left into the left hallway. “S-shit! Monarch's tit!” a yell said, echoing through the castle and likely causing a few gasps if anyone heard it, but thankfully nobody was in the main hall due to the feast that was currently taking place. The footsteps rapidly ran back, out of the hallway and into the right hallway. From there they'd continue down the hallway towards the feast.

At the feast, the mood was settling down as several noblemen were starting to head for their chambers, with wife in tow. Sometimes it was the other way around, much to the amusement of those around them. It was common at these feasts to take a few hours of sleep before returning, to feast once more. Either that, or the men wanted to unleash their masculinity, which amounts to essentially the same thing - ultimately, you sleep. Never the less the hall was still somewhat full, though more quiet. The queen had by now retreated to her chambers, leaving king Gregar alone with his noble friends, telling war or hunting stories, and the odd sexual story. 'twas merely good, thus, that the queen retreated to her chambers, as Gregar had the hardest laugh of all.

Terryn, on the other hand, was hardly laughing. He looked up from Saewine, who had reacted as he'd expected - straight into the correct posture, but there was no doubt Saewine was dumb enough to fall right back on his arse on that bench. The worst part was that he was a nobleman, so the nobleman commander would insist Saewine be made captain. Way to breed mutiny.. “You'd best get back into position, soldier.” He emphasized heavily on the soldier, insisting that Saewine might be noble of blood, but he was a soldier none the less. Self pity wasn't going to solve that, it was only going to get Saewine killed. And right now, Terryn wouldn't care one bit if Saewine keeled over in the mud the next morning. “Now..” he hissed at the man.

He looked left and released Caterina, leaving her to speak to Sara, or anyone she wished to speak to. And as Terryn stepped away, he noticed a lady that he recognised from the first day of camp - but hadn't seen again ever since. “Damn travellers..” he mouthed to himself, not nearly loud enough to be audible for anyone. With steady paces he walked forwards - not next to her, or past her, but straight at her, locking eyes as he did so. As he got close he grabbed her arm, not too hard, but hard enough to feel that Terryn was insisting she'd walk with him. To anyone else, however, it might've seemed hard. He practically stole her away right underneath Horath's nose, too. With several more large steps, he moved towards a corner that was less populated before letting go of her. “You..” he said, eerily and perhaps a bit scary to Floure, but he'd continue swiftly enough to not allow a word to be said. “I've been trying to speak to you since I saw ya' at camp. I'd almost think you were avoiding me.” His words were harshly toned, but he didn't say anything especially bad or rude. “Almost.”

“See, most people at the camp, they prefer to see traveller people go, rather than come. Now, I spent enough time with the Servants at Coedwin to know that half of your people ain't half bad, but the other half are. Just a heads up, the others didn't spend time at Coedwin, so they think all of your people are thieves and bandits, not just half.” Little did Terryn know that he was talking to a woman who wasn't opposed to robbing a few noblemen left and right, but since he didn't know that, he couldn't judge. More over, she didn't look like a thief either. A whore, maybe, but not a thief. Perhaps it was the cute face, because the traveller clothes weren't helping. “If I were you, I'd dress somewhat more appropiately.. you stand out too much for a woman. And soldiers like being busy with women. Especially with no money involved.” It was pretty obvious that Terryn was saying she might get raped if she kept dressing in such a way, and that they might especially do so because many people hated travellers. Some hated them for blasphemous actions, such as pretending to know the future for cash, others hated them simply to have something to hate. Regardless, hate is hate, and hate ends up with someone getting stabbed. Maybe he could've brought the message a bit nicer, but that wouldn't get the urgency across.

The footsteps approached the feasting hall quickly, the man breathing heavier with each step, before he finally got to the doors. He dragged them open loudly, with large force, before running inside. He ran halfway into the hall, stumbled over and managed to barely catch himself, before running further to the king. “Lord, lord! They're here!” Several people inside the room would turn around and walk closer to the man, including Terryn as well as Jeremiah Bluewall, the Servants knight that sat with Erica. “What are you talking about, lad? Who's here?” the king said, standing up straight and, doing so, pushing his bench back a fair bit. The officer that had ran inside was leaning on his knees now, breathing in and out heavily before finally standing straight again. “The Cherwin-UGK!” In an instant, three bowmen had appeared in the doorway, loosing several arrows inside. One of them hit the officer in the back, the arrow protruding all the way through the body, another hit a noblewoman in the head. The third arrow flew over the crowd and landed against the wall, cracking in half before even hitting the ground. A mix of battle cries from the noblemen, knights, and several guards, and screams of fear from those less battle inclined, and those of the fairer sex, erupted in an eardeafening explosion of sound. Shortly after the bowmen appeared, seven footmen rushed inside, with three halberd carriers right behind them. They were prepared, and before anyone inside had even drawn their swords, another volley of three arrows was loosed, hitting a young knight in the head, instantly killing him, with the other two shots dissapearing into the crowd, no doubt wounding someone.

Terryn had reacted quickly, but not nearly as quick as he could've reacted in his younger years. His feet ran over to his right, past the benches and tables, evading the many people that were now rushing for the servants entrance to make an escape, since the main entrance was blocked off by, what looked like, Cherwinian soldiers. Terryn pushed past, and met with Saewine, Sara and Caterina in the confusion. “Saewine, guide princess Caterina and Sara to the kitchen, now!” This didn't look like a full scale invasion, because the border was quite a long way from the Hoffburgt. Perhaps it was a dare-devil attempt at killing the king right before invading. Whatever the case, their jobs was to protect Dorran, and with that the entire royal family. And well, Saewine was not exactly the most fit to fight against these soldiers. From what Terryn had seen, they were trained and had a strategy. “Go!” he said to Saewine once more to spurt him into action.

Princess Caterina looked onto the scene of battle with a horror reflecting in her eyes, but she didn't yell or scream as one might expect from a princess like herself. Rather, she seemed intrigued, but wasn't dumb enough to stand around waiting for her death. She wanted to run, but bumped into Terryn as she did so, who then explained that Saewine would be taking her to the kitchen, likely to hide there or wait for reinforcements. There was no way these Cherwinians would survive for too long within the Hoffburgt, not with the Black Shields camping right outside. But there was a chance of killing the king. “Saewine, Sara!” Caterina yelled, pulling at his arm. She didn't even know if Saewine knew where the kitchen was, so she'd attempt to guide him by pointing at a door in the corner, close by. The door was open, because servants had attempted to escape as well, obviously. But Caterina wasn't strong, and her pulling at Saewine's arm didn't mean he had to come. As such she'd be forced to wait with Sara for Saewine to spring into action, lest Sara wished to try her luck and run for herself.

Meanwhile lord Jeremiah Bluewall, the Servant knight that was seated with the princess, drew his blade, all the while yelling out. “For the King!” he yelled and as he did so, a number of servants, including Bjorn, rallied behind Jeremiah. They charged forwards, towards the entrance, in order to protect those that were trying to flee, and to slay the invaders of this castle. “Death to Cherwin!” they cried before clashing with the footmen, engaging in a hefty melee. Terryn meanwhile directed Warren, yelling at him a bit more clearly now that the room was half-cleared of others and the sounds of melee and yells of battle were the only thing audible. “Warren, get that one!” he yelled, pointing at an archer that stood with his two archer companions. If Warren hurried he could get by the benches on the left, passing the footmen and engaging the first archer with ease. Terryn had no doubt that Warren would kill the first, but after that the challenge was to kill the remaining two archers. Atleast he'd divert attention away from them.

Once his Black Shields were given their orders, Terryn would retreat to the royal table, standing by the king, who had by now drawn his sword as well, but stood at the back, not willing to risk his life quite yet. Understandable, for a king. Terryn drew his greatsword from his back, producing a sound of metal rasping out of it's sheath. Once it was out, it immediately met the ground as Terryn turned it in his hand and placed the tip of the blade into the wooden boards below him. There was no way he was engaging in battle - it'd only complicate the battle against the footmen. And he also couldn't help Warren - it was easy for 1 man to slip by quickly, but send two and they might withdraw footmen to help the archers. And helping Saewine.. well, Terryn didn't want to, but besides that, he had to ensure the safety of the king and Dorran first and foremost - being in the kitchen did not help with that endeavour. And so he was left here, standing by the king, overseeing the battle and ready to direct those who needed directions to where they should go.

"Warren get that one!" By the time Terryn had commanded the order the Black Shield had drew his blade and sped towards the group of archers. The first Cherwin archer saw the charging man and dropped his bow to withdraw a short steel blade. Warren was running to fast for the archer and slammed the rim of his black heater shield, courtesy of the Black Shields of course, into the man's chest, ploughing right through him.

By then one of the archers diverted his attention to the clash, strung a bow and loosed it. Ducking, Warren managed to deflect the arrow with his shield, giving a loud 'thunk' off of the metal before rising and continuing his charge. Before he could make a move on this man, however, the third archer came to the rescue with his shortsword, prompting Warren to turn his sword int hat direction and knock away a fatal jab.

He bashed at the archer who was trying to draw his own sword, sending him stumbling backwards and turned to face the third archer, knocking away another blow and sending sparks flying, but that's when 'it' kicked it.

A large burp of blood erupted from his throat, like magma from a volcano, emptying itself through his mouth, into his closed helmet, and falling through onto his armor. The archer looked stunned at first, as if some divine miracle had killed his opponent, but Warren instinctively reached up and quickly removed the helmet. The archer moved forward for another attack but Warren spewed a host of bloody droplets into his face, effectively blinding and stunning him for a moment and slammed the rim of his black shield into the man's mouth. The nearly-unconscious archer gave out a yelp, fell back, spit out some blood and broken teeth, and stayed down; he was out of the fight.

Metal upon metal, sparks in the air, the sound of battle, it erupted from the hall and Warren dueled the remaining archer while the others dealt with the footmen.