[b]Volksingen Proper, Vlaanburg Electorates[/b]

Olov Klauser tapped a taloned finger to his temple as he read over the parchment. A scrawny messenger stood in the doorframe, kneading his hat in his hands. The Elector’s furnishings were antiquated, out of fashion compared to those that sat in the halls of men - [i]normal men.[/i] But they were still grand displays of wealth and appeared older than the messenger cared to guess. His eyes lingered on a large wooden basin towards the back of the room, finely detailed and finished in a rich brown. The inside, or what the boy could see of it, was quilted with velvet. A rectangular slab of stone lay ajar to the basin. He didn’t have to guess to know what Olov used it for. 

“I don’t like the sound of this, not at all.” Olov stood up from his desk, setting the note down. “Unrest will reflect poorly on Volksingen, if this is allowed to pass.”

The messenger nodded uncertaintly at this.

“Oh. You’re dismissed. My chamberlain will see you rested and fed. Have no fear, I’ll dispatch an agent of mine to Brent to deal with the matter.”

The boy looked up, puzzled. “Just one man, sir?”

Olov returned to his seat, flashing the lad a toothy smile. “He’s not just [i]any[/i] man.”

~~~~

[b]Town of Brent, Volksingen Canton, Vlaanburg Electorates[/b]

[i]Some time later…[/i]

Night’s veil was lifting, chased away by the sliver of sun that now rose just over the treetops. Dietrich could see them more clearly now - the army arrayed outside of Brent’s wall. They carried no cantonal banner, nor did they wear unifying colors. Yet they were outfitted in gleaming, new armor and carried polearms; a little too well-armed for the average conscript. They had brought ladders with them.

“Spyglass,” Dietrich said, holding out a hand to an adjunct. They were atop the wall, Dietrich hastily armored in gambeson and mail. The buttons on his neck and sleeves were still undone and his helmet sat unfastened on his head. Once it was in his hand, he brought the spyglass to his eye, picking out the ringleader. He didn’t look familiar. By what means did he assemble and arm this crew? And what did they want of Brent?

Most of those assembled did not look like fighting men. Weapons sagged in their hands, and they carried themselves with weak postures. A few of them were more hardened. These few echoed the cries of a sandy-haired fellow at the head of the formation. The closer they got to Brent, the clearer Dietrich could make out the words: “Down with the Archon! Down with the bloodsuckers!”. Rebels - that was clear now.

“Crossbows at the ready!” Dietrich commanded. His men complied, knocking back strings and loading bolts. He wasn’t going to take chances, even if these men had just a fraction of their leader’s conviction. The rebels continued until they were meters away from the wall. They stopped, save for their leader, who stalked forward several paces, eyes to the ramparts. 

“You there! Open the gate and join us, or we’ll be forced to sack the town!”

“This a rebellion?” Dietrich shouted back. “You’ll be drawn and quartered once the Elector hears of this. It’s treason!” A few of the rebels shifted uncomfortably on their feet at this.

“Piss on the Elector! The bloodsuckers have been in charge too long. It’s time for men to run things around here!”

“Idiot! Thanks to the Electors, you’re not a subject of Lynnfaire! I’d sooner follow the Archon than a common welp! What do you say to that?”

The rebel ringleader fumed, stepping back into formation. “I say we’ve got nothing left to talk about. Men - attack!”

The front ranks of the rebels surged forward, swinging their ladders to the ramparts. Dietrich bellowed and his men loosed their first volley. Bolts peppered the rebels, dancing off breastplates and helmets. A handful of men went down - not enough to slow their advance. 

“The ladders!” Dietrich scrambled to the rampart’s edge. Using the edge of his halberd, he pushed the nearest ladder - and the rebel climbing it - from the wall. Yet more swung to the edge all along the wall’s length. Below, the rebels’ leader was shouting for more bodies on the wall.

Dietrich cursed, grabbing a discarded crossbow from the ground. He wound back the string as quickly as he could, slapping a bolt into the nut and taking aim. He found his mark, lining up a shot at the rebel. His finger tensed below the trigger, anticipating the perfect moment. It came.

A dark shape flashed overhead. With a [i]whoosh[/i] and a bloodcurling scream that sent shivers down Dietrich’s spine, the rebel leader all but vanished. In his place, Dietrich’s quarrel had struck the ground. 

Perplexed, Dietrich turned to the sky, and there he saw an enormous winged shape flying away - with a sandy-haired man kicking and screaming in its grip.