First on the checklist; the letter from his father. Ducking out of the breakfast hall, Vyarin was greeted with the familiar disorientation imposed upon him by the majestic palace of Astalia. Rooms upon rooms, hallways upon hallways, as to what led where he could only guess. Absentmindedly, Vyarin fished a bite of bread from his pockets and took a bite. He hoped this wouldn't be a long morning. The first challenge, he realized, was where exactly he would find a suitable fire. He had no place in a kitchen; that was the domain of skinners and stewards. No doubt he would get chased out like a boy before he could place his vellum message anywhere near where they made their meals. No, that would not do at all. For a guest to intrude upon their host in such a manner, for that is what they were, even the lowly Krebos, is beyond undignified.

His luck finally turned, however, when he stumbled into a common room, with a growing fire as tended to by a muttering servant. When he approached, she took one glance up at him before scurrying away, muttering apologies in Astalian. Vyarin felt a little demoralized that the mere sight of him, or the breadth between their status, had banished her away like an evil spirit against a fetish, but for his purposes it served him well. He fished out the parchment, now covered in crumbs, and tossed it gingerly in the fire. The corners blackened, then curled, crumbling back into insignificant dust. There, his little conspiracy might escape his fool mind or his fool mouth, but never via his father's hand.

It then occurred to him that he heard a noise, the shuffling of documents and the dragging of wood against wood. Was someone planning a campaign? His mind immediately leapt to paranoia, but his reason won out quickly. Nobody knew of the coming armies of Logon. Nonetheless, doubt crept back into his mind and bit down. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to check, just to make absolutely sure. Carefulness, after all, is the highest of duties, among others. 

The neighbouring room was much different from its adjacent; it was covered in racks, but rather than holding weapons or shaman's herbs, it was dedicated entirely to scrolls and arranged stacks of parchment so thick it resembled blocks. Immediately a stern aide wearing the colours of Astalia approached him and began either instructing or insulting him, he could not say for certain. When the aide gestured to the scrolls with purpose, he glared up at Vyarin, almost totally unafraid of the difference in their statures. Vyarin admired that; in another life, in another world, this diminutive scrawny man could have been a mighty berserker.

Vyarin's luck was truly with him today, for the source of the noise was none other than Annalise, daughter of Harold. She read quickly, arranging the pages before her with the vigour that came with worry. He almost didn't want to interrupt her.