[center][u]Awyen Salt-Tooth
[/u][/center]
The royal banners of the Svinoc tribe were needlessly confusing. Their tartan, red and dark olive, represented their clan and blood. Many banners were flying this tartan, but only two had the golden trim of the royal banner. The first depicted a black albatross mid-flight. This was the personal tartan of the Sea-King Awyen, first son of Chief Conall Ring-Giver. The other tartan bore the image of a lion, this was the tartan of Conalls younger son, Prince Faoelin Fair-Haired. Notably absent, was their father, the southern king himself. 

The young Prince Faoelin was the first to notice that the sleepy village had been turned into a fortified encampment almost overnight. If someone had lived their whole lives in this sleepy town by the Grauglang, the hastily built walls would look no different than a Nhirian fortress. “I thought we would be sent to some backwater swamp.” Said Faoelin, evidently pleased by the recent construction “If we hurry perhaps we can be there in time for the evening feast!” Awyen remained silent for now. It was not good to make judgments too soon, but already he was concerned. There were many men here, and this was not a reassuring fact. Moreover, the evidence of an incomplete long hall suggested that this would be a much different meeting than the last. It was the holy grove, in addition to the proximity of the conflict, that made this small backwoods village the meeting place for chiefs. Any vows sworn in that sacred grove were vows watched by the ancestors. Awyens quartermaster, Iomhar, shared his lord's silence. Their minds wandered two distinct places, but both lead to the same conclusion.

“I don’t think attending any feasts would be a good idea,” spoke Iomhar. The young prince was taken aback. “I don’t understand,” Faeolin said frustrated “I’m here to negotiate, how am I supposed to do that from outside the town?”

Iomhar ignored the young prince and continued speaking “I don’t like this Awyen, there are only a few chiefs represented and there are thousands of men. The math just doesn’t add up. Seeing as we’re already late, we should find a hill and camp until we know what’s going on.”

“What?!? But we’ve been marching for weeks! I for one am going to sleep under a roof tonight and eat a hot meal.” Before Awyen could say anything Faeolin was cheered on by quite a few members of his party. Iomhar took swift action and struck the young prince so hard across the face that he nearly fell off his horse. The men took the hint and silenced themselves. “Insolent serf!” cried Faeolin, the insult landed but had no iron to it. Faeolin stared at his brother's retainer waiting for an apology that wouldn’t come.

“If you can’t make peace within your own company, what hope do you have to make peace with seven nations?” Awyen spoke with an almost monotone voice, a trait he had inherited from his father. Those daring enough among his company laughed. Others tread cautiously and kept quiet. In truth, Iomhar was in the wrong by striking royalty. Especially while serving as their escort. However it was a habit gained honestly at sea with Awyen, a quartermasters role was to keep the crew alive and healthy. Even if it meant slapping sense into the captain from time to time. Not only was Iomhar one of the best at what he did, but he had also proven his loyalty countless times over. 

Awyen gazed at the fortified walls with a touch of anxiety “I can’t risk being seen as weak Iomhar.” “What about being seen as gullible?” the quartermaster quipped back. If one of the petty chiefs was making a power move, then entering the village would be walking right into their hands. “Well kiddo, seeing as you are the designated diplomat for this mission, what is your call? One of us must make an appearance, and one of us must stay where it is safe in case this is a trap.”

Faeolin decided that he should stay behind and watch the camp. This was fine in Awyen’s mind, better to face up to trouble than be drug into it. After all, Awyen knew that he had the fortitude to protect his people if he was captured, whereas his brother might not. If he was going to be betrayed, he would rather get it over with quickly. Awyen grabbed a warrior by his shoulder and asked him gruffly.

“Why are there so many men here, who are they loyal too?”
“We have come as the entourage of Lubbo Bladetaker, King of Carogacts, and we are here to save Thraxia.”
“Tell your king that Awyen of the Vedatanni seeks his audience.”