The number of trophies made him feel empty. No matter the story or the meaning to each it did not fill some unknowable hole in his heart. He could only feel the gesture of its pit. He had tried to fill it with many things but battle, wine, women, hunting. But nothing resolved it, nothing entirely saved him from the nagging feeling there was yet something to accomplish in the world. And he had the impression that it was nothing entirely defined by these objects. The prince Artoia Amallo lay on the floor with his hands clasped over his chest and his legs crossed. He starred up at the mantel over the fire place where hung a notable many trophies and stories that hung there. He recounted how he got them, and what they had done. But no matter what, nothing had centered his thoughts on what it was he was doubtful about and he puzzled over that as much as he recollected the bygones of his life. Center above the fire, reflecting the bright sunlight that came through silver-white curtain sheets thing as spider's web was the misshapen helmet of some Murissian noble, some minor character from long ago. The first to be killed when he went to battle as his father's squire – or, one of several of them – and the first man he had killed. On some hot and steaming field under the threat of rain and after the passage of an earlier storm they had waded in mud half way to their knees to reach a hill to overlook the main battle to come. Duke Adolfiano Clairmont Artoya Amallo resplendent in his polished plate steel with a cape of elk's hide slung over a shoulder and clasped with a silver buckle over his heart, his plumed helmet dancing high with a dozen long feathers over him. He was a sight to behold, with his war hammer fresh and gleaming in the stormy light clasped in his two hands. Despite all the weight that wore on the armored duke his persistance and determination to climb that damned muddy hill invigorated the youths selected as his retinue of squires; many of them were low born. They had topped that hill to have only a second of piece before a retinue of light horseman charged on them from their flank. Artoia saw his first man die when a lance pierced through the right shoulder of the lightly armored young man ahead of him and dashed him across the mud as the point ran through to the underside of his arm and breaking the spear from the rider's hands. The next moment Artoia was dodging horses as his father the duke took a swing with his hammer, unbroken as a spear broke off his heavy armor and cracked a horse's legs out from under it with a meaty snap of its bones, spilling it and the rider head over end into the sodden earth. By the end of the engagement several of their companions were dead, and Adolfiano was unphased. Artoia stood beside his father as more men raced to meet them and as the fellow knights down below the hill raced to relieve their foolish lord. Moments before they would arrive Artoia fought the charge's commander in solo combat, and rested his sword in the left eye of the gray clad commander's face. It was his first finest moment. And bringing the man's head to camp he was celebrated by the knights and they shared with him his first drink of mead as the stripped away the helmet and carried away the skull. Last he had heard it was prepared to make some man's wine cup, perhaps his someday; but he never saw it and he since privately wondered if the head somehow found its way back. That was nearly a generation ago, he had grown thirty since, married a baron's daughter, and had children. Looking at the misshapen and rusting helmet he began to wonder at just how tiny it seemed compared to all things. Especially in the light of his other trophies. He had taken many things – in fact, many parts of people even – as trophies in various battles and skirmishes over the years that the act of battle itself began to seem a mundane thing, and he started to ponder if that was part of the problem. But if it was mundane: then in what way had it become mundane? What was so trivial about it? Could all encounters be trivial, such as they become? Maybe? His eyes wandered to another trophy. A set of inconspicuous looking objects, hinges; but not just any hinges. These hinges came from a gate house. Fastened to the wall by heavy iron stakes alongside his family coat of arms that hung high over the fire place two enormous wrought-iron hinges the length of a forearm hung collecting dust. These came from some mountain fortress he lead an assault on one night with the war against the Union to break the line for the coalition assault into the heartland of the Union's foothold in Styria. It was not the first time he commanded, but felt at the time his grandest achievement in his young career. For several days they had laid the valley fort to frequent slow battering by trebuchet before under cover of night creeping to the walls as they set the field ablaze with wet pine to create a heavy smoke that darkened the already dark night. He had gone in first, as all good sons of the city do and forced open the gates and set fire to much of the fort as a blind and confused force of Union soldiers scattered and barricaded themselves in the keep. Once inside, they locked them in and simply let them starve for months; opening once the stench became too strong and then burning the place. But, there seemed to be something wrong about that. A sense of an abuse of cruelty. But was this not war? Was that not how he came to understand the act of war itself? An armed tactical execution of cruelty? And besides: what was cruel? Could something be defined as cruel of the act itself was good, to win against the enemy and in finding resolute victory perhaps lessen the over all human cost of war by ending it swiftly? But then, that would make history seem silly, or the history of his land and his family and that puzzled him deeply. It left behind the odd intangible gulf deep in his soul. It all seemed... small. But, why? Outside the sounds of seabirds echoed in the air. The sea smelled sweet with the smell of salt and meat. Leaving the question now would only hold off on finding the answer that nagged at him. It would be a reprieve from the terror of meditation and stay the fear. But so long as he was still, he would only return to it. Even as he lay on the floor with his head resting on the carpet and his blonde hair fanning out from under his head he could see a distant future possibility where no part of his day was without the nagging question and it froze him. He: as the duke's prince and eldest heir to the throne, with more wealth than most of the land could even dream of having, and having so much: why did he feel he yet had so little? Where was his failing, how was he not like his father, brave to an insane fault, even reckless. There was a rap on his door and the prince turned his head. “Come in.” he said in a soft rasping voice. It opened, standing there in his livery was a castle servant. His face was as dour and formal as it could be. His mustache and beard waxed to an impressive gleam and holding strong like iron. “The mid-day meal is ready. Would you like to eat in your chambers or in the hall.” “I'll eat in the hall. I'll go soon.” The servant nodded, and bowed as he walked from the door, leaving it open. Artoia's stomach growled. Another day perhaps.