The People's Guard, following the Lord Commander Wallace of the Storm's End Garrison, slowly approached the gate. They hugged the tree line, afraid to come out. Wallace slowly rode up to the gates. There must be at least five archers aiming at him and his horse at this moment, ready to pick him off the moment he makes any unexpected, or more likely expected but unwanted, movements. He waved to the garrison members on top. The portcullis was raised, allowing him to enter.

Slowly, the rebel army emerged from the trees. With their brown clothing and the dirt that covered them head to toe, it's as if the ground rose up and split into many human shaped pieces. A few of them, separated from the rest by not having as much dirt caked onto them, slowly shuffled to the front of the horde, and made their way into the gates of the keep. The rest stayed nervously outside, expecting a hail of arrows to rain down upon them and break the peace.

The cleaner people walked right up to Wallace and began demanding to know where Gris was. Their voices slowly raised, some stating they want to kill him and others saying they just want to discuss peace terms. This escalated until one of them shouted at the top of his lungs, silencing the rest of them.

“I’d say Lord Gris is in his study right now,” Wallace drawled. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Nay,” a rebel general said. “We’ll come with.”

He was so close now, soon he would come to a breakthrough. He had for once in his life gone to the castle battlements without his sister, and unveiled his invention. He had hoped that with his victory, knowledge would prove triumph over force. With his loss, he had locked himself once again in his workshop. Yet now, he could not find refuge in his work. The image of his father haunted him, taunting and jeering.

“A son of mine you are not. You have shown your worth upon the battlefield, and have been proven unworthy,” would repeat in the recesses of his mind. Desperate to drown out the disappointment, he threw himself at his latest project, almost reaching fruition. A knock on the door jarred him from his thoughts.

“Milord, the generals are here,” a voice reported from the other side. “They want to discuss peace. There’s no need to respond, just . . . consider it, will you?” A small clambering of voices rose up suddenly, some shouting “Get out here!” While others shouted at the shouters. Gris, of course, did not make any noise. 

“He’s not coming out,” said one of the generals, raising his axe. “Stand back. I’ll drag him back if I need to.” With a roar, he brought down the axe, burying it in the door. Unfortunately for him, the door in question was over 6 inches thick, and the head stuck. Grumbling curses, he tried again and again to reclaim it, but it was stuck tight.

“Listen, he has to eat sometime. If we must, we’ll wait him out right here.”