[center][h2]Otice, Seat of the Lord of Brestvid[/h2][/center]

“Oh do play it again!”  Domen cried in elation from his place of pride upon the rooms tawdry throne.  The lord of Brestvid had, for the fifth time this month, filled his great hall with entertainers of every conceivable profession.  At the moment he was encouraging a notably awful harpist, much to the dismay of his court.  Domen’s taste in all things was garish, but no appetite for luxury or prestige could account for the lords musical preferences, which could best be described as the screeching of harpies and snapping of strings.  His long suffering heir Henrik, a man of twenty three, had adopted the placid expression of one so accustom to eccentricity that even the most egregious and unsettling displays failed to impress any longer.  

As the harpist, a blond woman with a broad smile far more pleasing than her work, finished her ‘song’ it was Henrik who spoke, “A fine display, thank you.  Father, now that the last act has acquitted themselves as well as any who preforms for you justly should I feel the time has come to address the concerns of the day.  Do you not agree?”

Domen nodded, but made a laughably poor show of concealing his displeasure.  With a very nearly pitiable forgery of a smile he replied, “Of course, of course.  We shall reward the performers and send them on their way.  I call upon the court, let us hear what maladies plague our little slice of the realm today.  What urgent happenings demand my precious attention and so on.”

If the exhaustion of having to run his fathers demesne and still tolerate the man showed on Henrik’s face there was not a soul that would attest to it.  The performers filed out of the hall in an orderly manner and as the various couriers and advisors of the land took their place Domen leaned back in his bejewelled abomination, looking to be wholly exhausted before the work of the day had even begun.

With an indolent gesture from his lord the first of the days couriers stepped up, “My lord Domen Furlan, I bring news from the east.  Lord Lovro Kolar is dead, having passed away in his sleep.  Without a son his eldest daughter Jelena Kolar has assumed his place as the great lord of Senja.  She sends her regards and inquires if it is your desire to send a delegation to her fathers departure ceremony in two weeks time.”

Domen had perked up when he heard that Lovro Kolar was dead, but after that the plump man returned to his lazy repose.  With a grunt from his father as his cue Henrik replied somberly, “We are deeply saddened by this news.  Let the new mistress of Senja know that we will do as she suggests and assemble a delegation to attend the departure ceremony of her father and our friend.”

Henrik paused for a moment, the beginnings of a wicked smile breaking through his affected melancholy, “In fact, inform the mistress that I will personally attend.  Senja has always been a friend to us.”

The courier bowed deeply and departed, but as the next courtier approached Domen eyed his son cautiously.  That, the old man reflected, was not something he’d have expected.  Domen and Henrik disagreed on most everything these days, but neither of them had possessed anything but the dimmest opinion of Lovro.  If his son thought Domen an oaf, then Henrik's opinion of the deceased Lord Lovro Kolar, to whom he owed no familial affection, would have been far too crass to put into words.

His son was up to something, of that were was little doubt.