[center][i][b]Castle Ghomyre, Near Bosfryd[/b][/i][/center]

"MAKE WAY FOR HIS MAJESTY THE KING," the herald bellowed as the royal party clattered at a near gallop into the battered fortress's tightly packed outer court, "MAKE WAY!"

The assembled dignitaries knelt on the muddy flagstones, old Baron Whul's arms spread in the traditional posture of welcome as King Harold and his courtiers dismounted. The Baron's wrinkled face was white with fear, as were many faces in the kneeling crowd. Playing host to his Majesty was perilous in these dark times.

"You may rise," said the King as he pulled off the royal riding gloves. He did not deign to look down at the Baron as he spoke, "I desire to dine now. Then I wish to be entertained by mummers in the great hall. We discuss the state of your holdings tomorrow."

"Of course, Majesty," stuttered Whul as he tottered to his feet, "And might I say it is an honor to have you stay with us here. I-"

"Honor is it?" snapped the King, spinning on his heel to face the mumbling nobleman, "Where was honor when the rebels where burning my lands? Where was [i]honor[/i] when you sat in your castle for nine months, ignoring my commands?"

"Majesty, I..."

"[i]Majesty, Majesty,[/i]" Harold sneered, turning away once more, cloak billowing out behind him as he marched towards the castle's hall, surrounded by sniggering courtiers and guardsmen clanking in heavy armor.

Baron Whul wheezed apologies after the king as he struggled to keep up.

"Don't take it so badly, your Baronialness, old Harry's just having a rough day," said a genial voice from behind Whul, before a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, "Short on cash, and dealing with some unsavory creditors."

Now it was the old Baron's turn to spin on his heel, spluttering and outraged, "Indecorous behavior, who are...?!"

The man behind him was on the short side, balding, thickset but in the hard way of men who live life out of doors, his face studded by the tell-tale pockmark scars of a plague survivor. He was smiling, his teeth square and uncannily white under rather magnificent mustaches. He had gleaming green eyes that did not quite match the warmth of his grin. He wore black leather armor with no device or badge. A mercenary, then. One of Harold's sellsword captains.

Baron Whul had spent a long life staying alive by knowing the dangerous ones when he saw them, and this man sure as hell fit the bill.

"I'm just one of Harry's dogs, a dog who's getting a mite hungry, I must say," said the sellsword, chomping his teeth twice for effect and chuckling, "Daigon's the name, Captain of the Red Fangs, a thoroughly disreputable rabble, I'm afraid."

"I-I've heard of you, sir," managed the Baron.

"I'm sure!" said Daigon, "Sad to say I've acquired a bit of a reputation over a long and wicked life."

Behind the sellsword captain, a new company of troops had arrived in the court and were busily dismounting, some clad in the colors of the Royal Guards, others clearly mercenaries. Their weapons were unsheathed.

"Lot of troops you brought with you," said Whul, "There are no rebels in my lands..."

"No, or not many," said Daigon with a smile, "But I wasn't sure how well-manned this fine little fortress of yours was, or how much of a fight would be left in you."

"Fight? I..."

He was cut off by a scream from somewhere along the walls, followed by much shouting and the sounds of clashing steel. 

"Someone's got to pay the royal bills, Whul," said Daigon, a thick hand resting on the pommel of his curved sword, "Now, would you kindly direct me to the castle treasury?"

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