[hr][hr][center][h1]The Hunt[/h1][/center][hr][hr]
Precautions had been taken in the aftermath of the assassination attempt. In the week that had followed, Ozragad's every drink and every meal had been tasted before he consumed any of it. There were guards posted in the kitchens now, others were assigned to watch his meals as they were taken up from below, so none might tamper with them as they were brought to the King's table. It was inconvenient, and it was infuriating that he even had to resort to such measures, when once he would have counted on the loyalty of those who served him.

Those were not the only changes Ozragad had made since then. He was getting up earlier each day, making more time in the exercise yards to practice at his swordplay. He would train with blunted weapons against trusted and skilled men. Sometimes one on one, sometimes against up to three of them. If poison had already failed his assassins, who knew what they might try next? But Ozragad would make himself as ready as he could be. He would be ready to fight them when they came for him. 

The morning of the first of Manawyndan's planned betrothal events was no exception. Ozragad had awoke before dawn and went at his sparring. He had them push him harder than usual, not stopping until he was short of breath, and aching with soon to be bruises. The rush of adrenaline, even the pain, was probably preferable to the farce he go through today. But he was resigned to it now, this was to be a show marriage after all, he should give his people their show. 

After he had finished at the training yards, Ozragad bathed and changed into his costume for the day. For the most part they were practical, dark hunting leathers, though far finer than he would ever normally bother to wear when he knew he was going to get covered in mud and blood. The most theatrical element of it was a furred cloak, cut from the skin of a great spotted mountain cat, draped over one shoulder. [color=f7941d][i]They are trying to bring out your predatory side.[/i] [/color]He made sure his hair was securely tied back, and forwent any jewels beside his plain golden circlet. Rings, chains and their ilk only got in the way when riding over rough ground and handling a bow. 

Underneath it all though, against his skin, he wore a fine mail shirt. [color=f7941d][i]Do not forget, someone wants you dead.[/i][/color]

The hunting party were gathering in the great open square in the lower ward of the palace, where they would then process through the upper city, before leaving through the north gate to the King's hunting parks beyond. By the time Ozragad came down to meet them, almost all had assembled in readiness. As he emerged from the palace and marched down the stairs, flanked by his personal guard, he surveyed the bowing and kneeling figures. 

The Princess would be somewhere among them. 

After all, she had to be there to receive his bounty of his hunt. There were two sides of this piece of theatre. The valiant hunter proving himself and the gracious hostess to seem his gift. Only she was the stranger here, and he was by no means valiant. 

A thought crossed his mind then, did she even ride? She had been brought to Morganyth in a carriage, and up into the palace in a covered palaquin. He had never seen her ride, never asked her if she did. Did women even ride in Eorzia? Or was that forbidden to them too? Perhaps if had been less preoccupied with other matters he would have looked into these arrangements himself, but no, someone wanted him dead. So he had left it Manawyndan, like he always did when it was a task he did not wish to oversee himself.

[i][color=f7941d]Perhaps its Manawyndan that wants you dead. Perhaps its your new Princess.[/color][/i]

Push those thoughts away. Put on a magnanimous face. Go down and greet all the sycophants. But do not forget, someone wanted him dead.