Session One Hundred and Fifteen - December 13, 2014

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session One Hundred and Fifteen - December 13, 2014

Postby Matt » Thu Jan 08, 2015 8:23 pm

Agrazhar 19, 732

The distinctive sound of bone on wood was heard as the dice rolled and bounced around the cup. A small bench, up turned specifically to set a field for the bones to battle, was set before the three men. One could say that nominally they were guarding the entrance to the tent that stood by them. The sounds of feasting and dancing came from within, but the men paid it no heed while they set to their sport and nibbled on ends and bits scrounged or sweet-talked away from the servers. One, at least, stood nominal guard and was upright leaning on a post. His attention was split between watching a rustling tent flap as servers came and went and the dice game happening near at hand.

“Go ahead caster, or are you going to tickle the bowl until the edges are round?” said the youth on guard.

“Shut your hole chip, this is a game of skill and concentration, an afterling like you knows nothing of dice, women, or war.”

The two men; mindless of the mud, scabbards swept back with accustomed practice, lounged on the ground near the entryway of the tent, laughing at the jibe.

The dice rolled from the cup and bounced along the inside of the bench.

“Mark! Ha, I’ll be taking that.”

Reaching in the caster grabbed the fried pork sausage and cup of brandy from the board. The cup was quickly upended and drained while the sausage remained to vouchsafe the next bet, still too hot to consume anyway.

“What’s on offer next?”

“Let’s play Crown and Sword I’m widdershined and going hungry.”

The debate over whether to continue the current game or to change the venue was cut short by a hoarse cry from the tent.

“GUARDS!”

The sentry looked at the other two men on the ground and made to enter the tent, but noticed that neither of them had moved or risen so much as an inch to respond to the call.

“Don’t we go in?”

“Rule number 30 chip, know your employer’s voice. If he don’t call, we don’t answer.”

The other followed with, “And never be the first in the room when someone calls for a guard. Unless you be the chip, which that’s you. Good thing in this case you have rule 30.”

The entrance to the tent was cast aside cutting the conversation short as a man, pale and haggard, looking fled the tent.

In his wake a commotion erupted in the tent, pierced by the shriek of women and a lone voice calling out above the din, “The Prince is murdered!”

The youth still uncertain as to what to do and looking to the senior members of the mercenary band for guidance teetered on entering the tent and staying where he was.

The two older men looked at each other, smiled, and split the pork sausage in half. Each swallowing their portion and getting to their feet.

“Luck to you and the Blue Boars chip. A murdered noble is sure to lead to longer coin spent for us.”

The tent then ruptured more of its occupants, each blustering and fuming in their own way. The entryway turned into a chaotic scene of shouting and random orders issued to no one in particular as armed nobles swarmed about. The youth, perplexed, looked about for instruction.

The sergeant came bustling up to the three guards, his tabard entwined in his baldric. The youth noticed that the perfect outline of two feminine hands, apparently covered in flour, were printed on his jerkin. Sorting his kit out with the shape of powdered kisses on his cheeks the sergeant looked foolish barking orders in such a state and demanding a report.

The two older men were an island of calm in the frothing sea of people and orders issued from within the tent and spilled out into the open air with seeming no effect.

The youth’s attention was called to a bearded knight who materialized in front of him demanding he fetch the Beadle. Staring vacantly at the man he was capable of only muttering half out loud.

“Rule thhhhhirty Sir.”

The words uttered in desperation or ignorance seemed to have the effect of a charm, for the knight turned his attention to another who had appeared nearby and stalked off.

The momentary reprieve was broken by the Sergeant who had now occupied the whole extent of his vision.

“Get in the tent with the other two now or you will be wheepling through the hole I put in your backside for a month.”

Smashing his gloved hand into his forehead in a paniced acknowledgement of the man’s seniority he complied with the order.


The scene in the tent had gone from a kicked over bees nest to the rolling boil of camp stew. The activity had largely subsided but under the surface the situation continued to agitate the collected nobles. The body of another lay on the floor, with a widening pool of blood much like that of a slaughtered hog that has fallen from its hook.

One hand of the dice caster was on the youth’s shoulder shoving him toward the prone body, while the other deftly secreted a misplaced or dropped ladies ribbon into his belt. The force of the shove carried the lad forward enough to be directly by the body and in time to be grabbed by a figure kneeling at the body’s side.

“Observe the limbs in their position and rigidity, curious effect for the recently deceased. Much here bears examination the murder weapon and chalice most of all. A royal corpse however presents itself as more than a minor curiosity as well. Prepare the deceased for conveyance.”

The youth looked towards his other companion and mouthed the question silently, “Rule thirty?”

The unlucky hungry gambler shook his head and held up two fingers: rule two was do what you are told. “You heard the man spit-frog, grab the arms.”

The petty purloining guard was interrupted in his trade by another order from his sergeant, spoken while patting his jerkin and fine tuning his arrangements. “Go with those two knights.”

The inquisitive look of the soldier as he gazed upon the mass of beweaponed men elicited a further explanation. “The armigers of our employer.”

With a nod and half smile accompanied with an, “UP SIR BARIS!” the guard spun about and followed the two knights. Pausing briefly to grab his pole-arm left by the upturned dicing bench, old bill followed in the wake of the knights through the camp. He walked where they walked and stopped when they stopped. Paying no heed to their course he simply looked about the party as they trudged along. When they stopped and spoke to other beweaponed folk he stood to their rear and waited stoically, to the small folk he gripped his pole-arm and looked sourly at them. All was an accustomed habit from the long years of paid employ and all transpired unknowingly to old bill. Until the hairs on his neck tingled and stood up.

Calling attention to his exact surroundings he noticed that the knights had made straight to the tent of the royal guard. The not Baris knight was in the process of exchanging heated words with the sergeant of the guard. What had alerted old bill was the fact that both men, consciously or otherwise, had allowed their hands to drift to their sword hilts. The next important item of note was the sergeant’s boots. Even through the mud and filth old bill could tell that they were of fine make. They belonged to a royal guard too, which meant that few miles had been trod under their heel and must assuredly be well made. His belt buckle was ornate, but bore the royal arms and would, as a result, be hard to profit by. The boots though, the boots looked like they might even fit. Who would notice a dead soldier with no boots and a live soldier with good ones? Old bill deserved those boots not some sloomy poop-noddy from Varayne.

“You can do this willingly or not,” said the not Baris. The boots were as good as his, thought old bill. The cloak could be dyed too…

The expected bounty of the battle field was dashed when the knights walked away. Accustomed to the frivolity of the gentry and inured to the vagaries of war old bill spent one last thought on the boots and made sure to stay in the wake of the knights as they proceeded to again cross the camp.


Nearby towards the manor house the youth struggled with the arms of the dead man. No one took any notice of the fact that he was attempting to bear the princely burden and the gear of his post with only minor success. He was certain that he now had blood on his tabard, though that might have the added benefit of making him look tougher and more experienced. While following the berobed, mumbling man to the manor his thoughts wandered. Perhaps if he looked tougher he could recruit another man to the Boars and cease to be the chip-sword. The lowest ranking member of a mercenary band was no easy position, there were rules to memorize, the worst and oldest equipment to carry, all the worst details to perform. Case in point: carrying a dead guy through a camp who was just as dead in the tent as he would be wherever it was they were going. The last question was at least quickly revealed when the party made for the manor house of Varayne.

The small party threw open the doors to the manor house and carrying in the mud, filth, and debris of a field occupied by several days of jousting and revelry, and a dead prince. The youth tried to scrape his boot has he entered in the house, more out of a courtesy for the women no doubt who would have to clean up this mess he made than out of any respect for the occupants. This task proved daunting in the face of the tittering and directing robed man. An incomprehensible stream of words, and accent sprung from the man at such a rate that the youth followed the direction of his pointing hands more than his words. Placing the corpse upon the table he stepped back; the blood no doubt would stain the boards. There was no end it seemed to the work he was thrusting upon the unnamed unknown bellibone servant he envisioned in his young head.

“IF YOU PLEASE!”

The youth aware now that the chitty-faced man was addressing him had just a moment to catch his bearings and perform the action he was being directed to perform.

Holding open the shirt for the robed man the youth was first impressed by the softness of the fabric. Perhaps the bellibone in his mind’s eye would be impressed with his bloodied shirt and apology accompanied with an offer of assistance to help clean the mess he made. Then when he touched her hand, or somewhere else, it would feel like the fabric of the corpsy shirt he held in his hand …

The crashing doors brought him back to the moment as a pregnant woman with a party in tow burst into the room, swore, and then made her departure.

“Boy, it’s just a dead body. Here hold this.”

The robed man placed a snotter in the youth’s hand and set about examining the wound directly addressing no one directly as he did so.

“Yes, this most assuredly slew our deceased prince. Or it would have, had the wound taken its natural course. Here! The appendages, as noted before, are rigid and stiff. A chill sensation when touched already coming to the exterior flesh as if submersed in a cold water.”

“Now, the knife. See the trace evidence of an adulteration placed upon the edge of the hand saber, and here traces in the fuller. The smell…. I recall its odor from the continent … Wrap this up!”

“With the snotter?”

The robe man stopped suddenly and eyed the youth. He found the bombardment of his silent gaze to be worse than the rolling assault of his speech. They stared at each other a moment, the youth waiting.

“No. With something clean, nothing you are wearing or carrying on your person. Despite the rain, the level of cleanliness on this island amazes me continually.”

The youth was saved by another man that had come with the party to the manor. “Use this. My name is Finbar of Erons.”

“My thanks, Sir?”

“Now the focal point of my investigation saving the deceased royal personage itself. Behold, the cup!”

The youth watched the robed man hold the cup up, jiggle it around, and make other nonsensical motions while peering and sniffing at the adorned, if ordinary, cup.

“This is not wine. Brandy, most assuredly and to the taste otherwise normal. Why does a young princeling consume copious amounts of brandy at a wine party and bear an adulterated side saber?”

The hall is suddenly silent as the robed man has ceased speaking.

“I need two assistants.”

Silence followed.

“Two.”

The board will most assuredly be stained now. A finger in the chest called the youth abruptly back.

“Fetch the Lord of the Manor, Sir Ewen Ravinargh, the First Knight of Kaldor, the patron of these martial games.”

Guessing at the man’s intent the youth touches his brow to comply, nearly dropping the wrapped dagger which is caught by the nimble robed man. Saluting again the youth fled the manor hall.


The tent soon emptied of most of the occupants. The sergeant, by now having dusted both his tabard and his face stood ready to execute the orders of his superior, the Captain of the Blue Boars, while the Captain in turn stood by their employer ready to execute his commands.

“Yes, send him to Tashal, he would make a good emissary. We must send out letters as well, to the appropriate people relaying what has occurred,” spoke a commanding voice within the knot of personages categorized as being in charge.

The hungry guard paid only half attention to the nobles, his ear was accustomed to the specific voices of his superiors granting him the uncanny ability to look alert when they spoke or addressed him while tuning out everything else around him.

The gnawing hunger for food was momentarily replaced by an equally powerful soldier instinct as the scribe in the service of their employer passed him by.

“Yes, the wording is acceptable. Send the missive to his Excellency the Archbishop at Caleme, and send forth Sir Rohn to Tashal with news and tidings of what has transpired nonce.”

The hungry guard, food forgotten, paid more attention to the woman who penned the missive than to the conversation that accompanied it. Watching her as she left the knights and made to leave.

“I’ll see if a messenger can be found,” the hungry guard mumbled and turned to go.

“Hold.” The short simple word of the sergeant cut like the blood knot of a whip, sharp and right where it hurt the most, gluing the man to the spot. With one hope dashed her turned his attention to another.

The talking of dispatching knights, notes, and sheriffs did little to dampen the hunger in his belly at the sight and smell of such rich and bounteous food. The riches in wine, exotic foods, and polished silver grew cold, spoiled, and tarnished in the deepening night. Side stepping to a table, but still behind his sergeant, his hand reached for a fowl prepared in such a way that he had ever only gotten a discarded piece, never mind the whole thing. Drifting closer and closer to the table the hungry soldier made steady, but slow progress towards his goal. The coming and going of those around him was lost in his desire to satiate the continuous hunger of a hardened campaigner.

Much like the fate of war his hopes were dashed as the table cloth was ripped from the table by one of the nobles to cover the blood spot on the floor. The desired morsel cascading to the floor to be quickly snapped up by a hound. Shaggy beasts of some Sir so and so. The hungry soldier wondered if the knights noted any difference between a man and a hound. The question was soon answered as a gauntleted hand from the knot of lords stroked the hound, but frowned at the man.


The quiet conversations in the tent and the gnawing hunger of the soldier were broken by the sound of a party of armed men making for the tent. The tent flap was cast aside and within the wake of the knights old bill spilled back into the tent. The armed band shuffled and clopped to the knot of men in the tent. Old bill smiled to see his companion’s hopes for a decent meal ruined by the capricious act of a knight and some hounds who had followed in at the heel of the gentle knighted master of some such. The bluster of the entry was in sharp contrast compared to the fresh face of the youth who poked his head in through the tent moments later. The Sergeant descended on him faster than the hound upon the upset table.

“What?”

“Sergeant.”

“Mind your place and touch your pash before speaking to me spit-frog.”

The youth dutifully touched his hand to his head and continued, “The one with the body wants to see the first matron of the manor.”

“Right. Stand outside.” With one fluid motion the sergeant snatched the silken handkerchief haphazardly stuffed in the belt of the youth, “And I’ll see this gets to where it belongs and talk to you later.”

Now outside the youth wondered if the serving girls swept the floors of the manor with brooms or scrubbed with brushes, contemplating the visual merits of both. Before he could decide he was swept into the tide of the departing company by the sergeant. Keeping up with the others while more of the Boar’s were sucked into the crowd he found himself back in the great hall of the manor. Trying to stand silently stoic in the background the youth felt a chill come upon him. The feeling began in the back of his neck where old bill told him his silent sentry was, but instead of being more sure of himself and ready for action he felt the desire to flee. Looking around him he noticed that his shadow had moved, twisted behind him, and then come up along beside him smiling.

“The caroling princes have fouled the court.” Giggling to herself the shadow passed away from the youth and towards the robed man. Leaving the youth with the impression he had avoided a fresh hole of earth for himself, he backed against the wall.

‘Rule 14, a wall is a better back friend than a cloak.’

The hungry guard nudged his companion and nodded towards one of the knights. Old bill frowned and wondered if the miracle story that had replaced the old wooden boot spoon of a war-scarred veteran of Ovendel Field with a silver plated new one would work on the bearded knight. The telling of the tale was spared when the bearded knight instead barked at the sergeant.

“Boar’s!” the sergeant called. His voice a little loud for the solemn occasion the higher born were trying to convey. The men assembled on him and received his orders and then set about to carry them out.

The old bill pointed to his two companions, “Seniority, I’ll take watch down here, you two lug the dead one up to the chapel.”

“I already carried him this far,” replied the youth.

“Then you know how to do it, jump to chip!” Some of the collected nobles apparently hearing some unplaceable noise looked around the room, but took no seeming notice of who had made it returned to their discussions.

The two soldiers made their way to the dead prince and picking him up made for the chapel.

“Yes, indeed. My statement to all of adulteration may have been ill-timed or misplaced Sir Ewen. The fact remains that such an event has here transpired at the feast. Most curiously have I endeavored to determine the source of said substance, but to no avail. May I prevail upon you to inquire from your retainer? Her knowledge of such matters may confirm or widen my own deduction on the matter, or perhaps I may quit the manor for my new residence in that kingly town to pursue study of my own lore and tools. Is Madame Adder available for my inquiry? “

The youth, not understanding a word the foreigner said, nearly dropped the body when he felt the cold feeling again and heard a quiet whisper say, “I am here.”

This solicited only a simple response from their employer, “Test it on something.”

Old bill noticed that the robed man was as reluctant as he was to be so near the draggle-tail girl as they made for the door way.

“It appears that our collective knowledge has produced no firm result as to the provenance of the substance. Now that we are alone perhaps we should indeed test the substance on something.”

Moments later, and perhaps with a sense of self preservation, old bill found himself in the possession of a stray dog, its mangy fur providing a solid hold as he passed the dog to the robed man.

The dog whelped once at the prick of the knife, wobbled, and quickly died. The two examined the carcass briefly and then left to return inside, paying no further notice to the mutt. Old bill using the hook end of his pole-arm and a practiced hand easily plucked it from the ground and with a flick launched it into the midden heap he had found it circling minutes before. Then old bill leaned against the door jam and took up his wait for a relief passing another humid Harn summer night the richer by one spoon.

The youth was relieved of his post at the chapel and quickly made his way to the bucket tent. His now personal relief was delayed when he saw the robed figure from the manor house enter the tent. Shifting from foot to foot the youth waited for the robed man to do his business and leave so he would not have to be in his awkward company again. Upon seeing him leave he quickly entered the tent and to his personal good fortune found an unused piece of parchment, which he promptly put to proper use.

Agrazhar 20, 732

“You were knocked off.”

“You were not riding the horse, I was, and I say I lunged so as to give him the advantage.”

“If you are going to throw a joust at least do it with some flair and martial skill. Lunging is a technique used in a joust to seek an advantage over ones foe. Not a ‘hey I think I’ll blow this one by trying to knock the other guy off, but end up on my own ass instead’ maneuver.”

“Well I came in second.”

The two knights stopped in their tracks on the way to manor.

“You want to go down there right now and see who should be second?” said the bearded knight.

“We’ll miss breakfast,” replied Sir Baris.

“You’re always lunging Baris, whether it’s across the lists or across the board.”

“Did I not explain to you my personal technique of always aiming high? Why are you so grumpy this morning?”

Sir Æomund stared at his companion for a moment and then trudged grumpily towards the manor house. “Let’s go, we will miss the meeting.”

The breakfast meeting of the assembled retinue was short and abbreviated. Despite the fact that momentous events had occurred there was very little that the group could do in the immediate moment to influence them directly. Many opinions were voiced and several ideas were picked up and discarded. By the time breakfast was concluded it was determined that something short term and long term had to be done to discover what ongoing plans Curo was plotting. Each with their task, breakfast soon ended.

Sir Baris made his way from the manor house unsettled by breakfast. Usually there was small talk and an ale after breakfast and Sir Baris found his whole morning ruined by Sir Æomund’s moodiness and the lack of his accustomed after breakfast day beginner ale.

“BARIS! What a night!”

“Sir Prehil,” said the knight looking up to see his friend, “Indeed, what do you do with a murdered prince on your hands?”

The scion of the house of Firith made a quizzical look, “Oh yeah, that. What happened anyway? I had a lady in one arm and an ale in the other, had no time to dedicate to dead bodies, royal or otherwise.”

“Prince Brandis slew his brother Sir Prehil, were you not at this feast?”

“Torasa is dead? That makes more sense, I heard it was the other way around. When you get the story from courtesans they cloud the important parts in chatter. I have a few tried and true techniques to get them to stop talking, or at least I distract myself, they may keep talking, I don’t know. I bet the Red Knight is involved, he had it in for everyone. Did you see that guy’s head come off?”

“Sir Prehil, Prince Torasa is dead and lies in state in the manor chapel.”

Sir Prehil scratched his chin and looked up at the manor house. “I suppose I should go pay my respects …”

“It appears that even Princes are not immune to squabbling over a woman.”

Sir Prehil’s attention is immediately drawn back from the manor house and his eyes were bright, “Yes, that’s one Curo I’d like to see again. Where did she go?”

“Aaghh, I don’t know. I’m not sure where she is now. She was safe when I left her. I made sure she was unharmed before I went out after Prince Brandis. I felt honor bound to insure the safety of the woman, that’s what knights do.”

“Too bad she wasn’t one of Ewen’s serfs. I have a vision of Telberan Brailour … as loud as one of Halea’s orgasms.”

“Yeah, I would think, I mean … ahh … the lightning was amazing.”

“BARIS! What are you talking about? I’m trying to talk about women.”

Sir Baris pauses contemplating this morning’s confusion, then gives Sir Prehil I sidelong glance, “Should we get a drink? “

“YES! And I need a new page.”

“A page Sir Prehil? Where is your old one that you need a new one? Are we talking about women again?”

“I don’t have a page, which clearly explains why I don’t have an ale this very moment.”

Sir Prehil grabbed the brawny knight by the shoulder and led him away, “Come let is drink while I think of this singularly talented individual. So, you decided to go for the lunge …”

The two knights walked off, the manor and dead prince forgotten, to celebrate the prestigious position of second knight.


The physician Sotor sat at the table which the night before had held the body of the prince. His mind was preoccupied by two thoughts, one was the dagger and the other on the reception of his literary work. Kaelyn watched him absently for a moment then spoke, “Master Sotor, I discovered the most amazing thing in the bucket tents.”

This stray comment elicited a too quick response from the learned man, “And what was this curiosity?”

“A lyric of some sort.”

“Yes? How interesting.”

“I have no idea what it said being harvested by the local gongfarmer as used up, but from the curious continental scrawl I would say put to its proper use.”

The robed man, realizing now that he had been trapped by the esoteric pursuer stood up abruptly.

“I’m off to Tashal, I want to examine this dagger more closely.”

Without looking up from the study of the leaves at the bottom of her cup she flatly responded, “Enjoy.”

The robed physician did not turn around to see the smirk on her face at his departure.


Sir Æomund stood in the great hall of the manor house. His eyes drifted towards the direction of the chapel, but he remained in the hall. He walked around the manor house, with no destination in mind. No one challenged him and twice he checked upon the guards before the chapel before his wanderings took him outside.

With no direction in mind he was addressed by a fellow knight of the order, Sir Teslim Doraster.

“Sir Æomund, its well that I have found you. Sir Houla would like a word with you at your pleasure.”

“Then I shall make it a priority to see him.”

“I am headed that way now, if you have the time I can take you to him.”

The large bearded knight nodded and fell into step beside his companion.

The two walked silently as they made their way to the commander of their order here in Kaldor. The knights knew each other distantly, but neither felt the need to explore the bounds of that friendship. Lost in their own thoughts on the past day’s events at the tournament the two quickly found themselves in the company of Sir Houla.

“Æomund, good morning.”

“Not for all of us Sir Houla.”

“How fairs the Prince?”

“He lies dead in the chapel of Varayne, Commander.”

“I was afraid of that, and Prince Torasa fled?”

Unknown to Sir Æomund this was the second time in the hearing of the retinue of the calculating first knight of Kaldor that the story had been so misconstrued. The significance of such was still unknown to the party.

Sir Æomund arched an eyebrow at that question. He had assumed the facts of the story would have been better known to the knight. He took a moment to relate only the high points to the commander of the order. He offered no details and none were asked of him. His report finished the Commander waved the whole affair off.

“That is not why I wanted to see you Æomund.”

The bearded knight accepted the familiar use of his name from the commander, but he found it irritating. A quick moment of self-reflection revealed that that knight had grown more formal and clung to formality more since coming into the service of Sir Ewen Ravinargh. He filed the thought away for later reflection.

“Are you still in the company of that Bujoc chippy you came to Tashal with? Or is she bounded off back into the deeper dark?”

“She comes and goes as is her want, but comes when I ask. She is in service such as it is.”

“No oaths bind you to the woman?”

Sir Æomund felt a hidden intent in the question. The word choice occurred to Sir Æomund that Sir Houla was perhaps hinting at the knight’s allegiance to the cult of Saint Erkenwald, or perhaps Sir Æomund was chasing the shadows of his own thoughts.

“No Commander, no oath is between us.”

“Yerrick was pressed into service to attend you at the tournament. Though he had no official oath to you, he was your companion, and now seeks to retire. I have a young Ataken that I have in mind for you to replace him in a more permanent and official capacity. He was at Ovendel Field and wounded while fighting in the rear guard.”

The bearded knight thought for a moment, “I had written Sir Remiu to find me a squire.”

“Yes, and I have another for you. He was late in the service of Sir Ballard Geledoth who fell in glorious battle. His squire managed to drag him from the field even under his own injuries. Would you meet him?”

“I would be remiss to decline to even meet him.”

Sir Æomund quickly learned that the lads name was Petros of Arandin and learned what he could of the man before meeting him. Sir Æomund fell easily into the conversation and nodded to the commander’s response and appraisal of the ataken. In the end he agreed to meet him, but would not whether he willed it or not, be able to take him into his service unless Sir Ewen approved as well. In his own subtle way the knight of Larani reminded the Commander that he was a knight of the Order at present somewhat out of the Order. Sirs Æomund and Teslim departed Sir Houla and went in search of Petros of Arandin.

The horse brush was a thing of comfort in the ataken’s hand. After so many years of caring for horses it was calming and relaxing to undertake their brushing. Petros had served in an armed camp during a war and he was surprised a bit to see how a camp of war and one for jousting were so similar. His thoughts were broken by someone calling his name.

Stepping out from behind a horse Sir Æomund saw a grown man respond to the call for Petros of Arandin. The man was large and stout and though heavy set had not gone to fat. He called out to the knights, “I live!” and presented himself to the two knights tugging his forelock.

“This is Sir Æomund.”

The bearded knight proceeded to ask him a few questions to gauge the depth of his knowledge of several subjects. Sir Æomund knew that he would need more than a man who knew what the pointed edge to a sword was. He briefly asked him about the upkeep of horses, his home, if he could read and write, as well as questions of religion and his faith.


The manor hall grew quiet as most of his retinue scattered to the four winds. Sir Ewen, the First Knight of Kaldor, retained his outward appearance, but his mind churned. There was nowhere for him to go in his own manor house. A dead prince was in a chapel he would never pray in, a pregnant wife he didn’t want to see or touch lay in his bed, and advisors who had no depth to his true plans bumbled about his manor amid the chaos of a royal murder.

Sir Ewen found his grip tighten on the cup he had in his hands, his knuckles turning white. Suddenly aware of the action he relaxed his grip. The time away from both the counsel and the touch of Rahel had had a greater impact on him than he had expected. His attempt to speak with her the evening before resulted only in a stupefied night’s rest on the balcony. At least that part of his manor had been a sanctuary for him. Rising the knight called for his bailiff.

She appeared quickly at the summoning of her lord and was attentive as he outlined his instructions for the funeral cortege to bear Prince Torasa back to Tashal. In some points the calculating knight was specific, in others vague, but when everything was aligned and set as he wished he was confident she would see his will done. Now that he was up and moving the knight left his manor hall to seek out his supposed ally, Meden Curo.

Enroute to the village inn the Lord of the manor chanced upon the dwarven smith that he had hired for the occasion. The two met exchanged pleasantries and greetings and the talk naturally drifted towards the trade of the dwarf. At the conclusion of the conversation Sir Ewen was most pleased to find that he had secured the services of a dwarven smith for the manor. This he thought was more auspicious beginning to his day than he previously had encountered.

The village inn the White Stag was secured and reserved solely for Meden Curo and his retinue. Having foreknowledge of the tournament the scion of the house of Curo had arranged for the building in its entirety to be rented out for his personal use. As was the custom of any great lord of the realm Sir Meden had stationed men of his house at the doors to keep people from intruding on his recently, if temporarily acquired, lodgings.

The current guard at the door was feeling well pleased with himself. Having the post of door warden meant that he was responsible for sending the local patrons on their way down to the ale tents on the fields below. Normally the position was quite boring, but the bounds of his authority had just been extended. Two burly knights had approached the inn and attempted to pass him by in search of ale. The door guard without so much as a by your leave sent them thumping down the ale tents. So this is what its like to be a lord and command knights thought the doorman. Secure in his authority he witnessed the approach of another knight.

“The inn is closed, the ale tent is down the street,” piped up the man as he came within ear shot.

“I hold this manor - it is mine. I assume that Sir Meden is in?”

The doorguard thought perhaps the man drunk already, “The ale tents are down that road, right over that way.”

Sir Ewen moved closer to the door warden, “I am Sir Ewen Ravinargh, you are standing in front of my inn, on my field, in my fief.”

The new found flower of spirit that had sprung so quickly to the man shriveled and died in an instant.

“Yes sir, I mean the Ale tent is down the road. Should you be thirsty, and the manor is there, you could get a drink there as well, and why the tavern. This inn here serves drinks. I’ll send word immediately.” The man beat a hasty exit.

The door soon opened for Sir Ewen, but the man who he had recently just exchanged words with had apparently found something more pressing to attend to. The knight moved into the room and was soon met by Sir Meden.

“My apologies Sir Ewen, it appears that I did not leave precise enough instructions should such a guest as you arrive.”

“I understand that you are well.”

“Better than Prince Torasa.”

The calculating First Knight of Kaldor showed no response to the statement, true though it was. “May we speak?”

“I am at the disposal of the lord of the manor of course. After last night I assume it is not too early to drink?”

With a wave Sir Meden summoned a servant for wine and dismissed the others.

“I am glad to find wine still in Varayne, the prince was deep into the brandy.”

“He did drink quite a bit, he told me to keep it coming.”

“I trust your sister is not unduly troubled.”

“Utterly devastated, refuses to leave her bed.”

“If there is anything I can do to ease her let me know.”

“Very kind to offer, I will.”

“Will you be in town for the ceremony?”

“I will but will be leaving shortly afterwards.”

“To Gardiren?”

“No to Tashal since you ask, but my sister will be going to Gardiren under guard.”

“I will be returning to Tashal as well.”

“Perhaps in Tashal we can talk further of working together, and to toast to the departed prince.” Though they had opportunity then and there, neither of the knights deigned to do so.

“Fate’s fortune struck down such a young son of the King.”

“Fortune’s wheel must always turn and one must beware the unwar strook.

“Yes, such as us must beware of that as well.”

“But not today.”

The two men toasted to that. Sir Ewen had revealed none of his intentions to Sir Meden in the exchange, but neither had Sir Meden.


The closing ceremonies of the tournament were a hollow affair. Typically the commons and gentle folk alike grasped with childlike glee at the opportunity to stretch a little more joy and pageantry from the event in the closing ceremony. In this case however, the murder of the prince had shocked the nobility and caused a lack of interest among the small folk. Many had already set out to return home now that the prospect of sword fights and lightning-struck knights was finished.

All of this was lost upon the Earl of Osel. The crowning of his son as the champion of the tournament created such a force of pleasure for the man that the dead prince scarcely registered in his thoughts as the awards were given to his son by Sir Ewen, the host of the tournament.

Though the two knights in his service had not won the tournament each had secured a substantial amount of money. Sir Baris the Lunger took into his hands an ivory statue of Mendiz, his mind immediately racing to how much he could pawn it for and figured it to be worth about 600d. On top of that through side bets and ransoms the knight collected £65; the bearded knight though not as fruitful walked away from the tournament with £25 and the fee from Sir Kornuska Harabor waved as a donation in Sir Æomund’s name to Laranian temple of his choosing. Sir Æomund found a new respect for the man for the noble deed and the way it was done. This simple chivalrous act took some of the bitter taste from the knight’s mouth and he shook his hand with no ill will towards the man. Sir Æomund still possessed no doubt that he would have beaten him had the choice been his, but he felt no lingering resentment towards the knight.

The ceremonies were concluded with as much brevity as they opened in order to make the final preparations for the funeral procession to Tashal.

Three figures made their way to the chapel. One was Sir Æomund, who was known to the two guards, the other was a grizzled man who carried himself as if he had often borne a sword. The third was a stout man, large, but not gone to fat. The three entered into the chapel of Varayne Manor. The candles were burning, but the bees wax, though more scented than tallow, was still a poor substitute to cover up the corrupting body of the Prince that lay in the small chapel.

Ignoring the deceased occupant Sir Æomund moved about to complete his errand. With a practiced hand the former bailiff of the manor strode across the room to the statue of Sir Erkenwald. Bowing to the statue the knight picked up the figure and placed it below the spot of honor and on par with Mendiz before the central statue of the chapel. Hidden in the plinth of the statue the knight removed a packet of papers wrapped in oilskins, unbound them, and placed them unopened by the figure as well. From the bag he carried the knight removed several objects. The first was a pennon of the Order of the Lady of Paladins which he hung, and the second was a white tabard.

He motioned for the lad to step forward and placed the tabard over his head. He moved the lad to stand before the icon of the Guardian Lady and Sir Æomund stood behind him. The knight then spoke softly but firmly.

“It is no secret to you, Breeder of Plagues, that the dark fire will be extinguished, punishment is looming up, and the day of your defeat will come. We who keep the ways, protect the traveler, and defeat your hosts know this. And so, damned and rightly damned, will you be.”

“Those assembled here pay honor to the Lady, the Shield Maiden of the Worthy Cause, ever in her sight shall we be. In this her shrine, see this one to be pledged to the service of a knight.”

“Pray to you that are pledged, bend your knee.”

Petros of Arandin kneeled before the statue of the lady with the knight behind him. A sharp sting to the sides of his head came as the hands of the knight clapped his ears and then the knight’s whispered into his right ear, “Open your ears so that you might hear.”

And then into his left, “Be gone devils and temptations from your chosen servant.”

Next the knight moved and stood before the kneeling man, “What is your name?”

“Petros of Arandin.”

“Petros of Arandin do you wish to pledge to a knight?”

“I do.”

“Do you do so by your own will?”

“I do so by my own will.”

“Obedience is the greatest duty of a squire, what is the greatest duty?”

“Obedience.”

“Loyalty is the greatest virtue of a squire, what is the greatest virtue?

“Loyalty.”

“Sir Æomund Legith is the burden you shall carry for the Lady, what is the burden you shall carry?”

“Sir Æomund Legith.”

The knight placed his hands upon the shoulders of the squire and raised him up.

“By my office, by my oath, and by my love of the Lady I take you into my service as a squire. You have pledged your service and your life to me, and I accept them.”

Sir Æomund placed a baldric with a sheathed sword to hang from his hip, in one hand a few links of mail, and in the other a drinking horn and spoon.

“You shall bear arms by my grace, wear armor in my defense, and drink by my hand.”

This done he placed upon the squire the kiss of peace.

The ceremony normally ended here, but Sir Æomund was not finished with his new squire.

“Duty is the greatest burden you have to carry, its singular expression is the obedience to one’s lord. For me that is the Lord of Varayne, for you, me. I promise that from me you shall learn to read. From reading you will learn the way of faith and the teachings of Sir Erkenwald. A letter written in his own hand bears witness to our oaths here today. I don’t know what future these troubled and strange times will bring to us Petros of Arandin, and I don’t know how heavy this burden may come to be for you, but I am glad you are here.

“Yerrick, come here.”

The grizzled veteran came forward and the knight removed several more objects from the bag.

“For your loyal service to me, though no oath bound us, I have a gift. Here is pen and paper to continue your drawing, a few coins to send you on your way, and downstairs a barrel of brandy to welcome you home again when you arrive there. May you walk upon the path of the Guardian Lady safe from all harm.”

Taking the fore arm of the man he shook it, repacked, and replaced the items in the chapel and made to depart.

Agrazhar 21, 732

The day began dry, but by the time the procession was preparing to move the weather had become hot and humid, a slow misty rain began.

Sir Æomund had placed his gift sword upon his hip, brushed and adorned the garments of his order, he even found time to brush his beard and comb his hair. Outside he heard Petros of Arandin speaking to Kalas the squire of Sir Baris.

“I looked in this morning on the horses and saw Sirs Æomund and Baris preparing the mount of Sir Ewen for travel.”

“Yeah, they do that.”

“Are you the squire of Sir Baris?”

“Up Sir Baris! Eh he pays me.”

“I’ll pay you with a heavy handed punch to the gut if I ever see those two knights caring for that horse or their own again.”

“Huh?”

The question was cut short by the sound of a thud and a sucking wind sound.

“Do the job of your station and we will get along fine. If not, well it would be better just to leave, the coin won’t be worth it.”

Sir Æomund smiled and exited the tent with Sir Baris and the two knights made their way to the mustering of the procession. The hunters Kittiara made an appearance and reported to Sir Æomund, “Æomund Sir, the road is clear of armed men.”

He nodded and summoned Petros to his side.

“Petros this is Kittiara she is an ally and friend. Kittiara, this is my squire Petros of Arandin. It would please me if you would instruct him in your language so we may converse all together in private.”


The small group quickly arrived at the assembly area to find Sir Ewen and many others already gathered.

“Sir Ewen, will your wife be with us?” asked the brawny Sir Baris.

“She, or I should say her guard, informed me that she will be remaining behind for a view days.”

“I will stay, my lands are not far from here. Does she need help with something?”

Silence was the only answer that Sir Baris received.


Nearby Sir Æomund cantered up to the Lady Serli Ubiel.

“Good day to you Lady Serli.”

“Sir Æomund.”

“How did you find the joust, your kinsmen did well?”

“Some knights were more worth watching than others.”

“I seek your forgiveness. I thought to ask you for your favor in the joust, but my pride blinded me. I have been humbled. I realize now that it would have been a strength to victory a balm, and not a thief. My understanding of favors has changed they serve as a much better tool, or so I now think.”

Sir Æomund found his line of reasoning and words confusing even to himself. A son of a Save K’norian should have more sense.

“May I ride with you Lady Serli?”

“I believe we are all headed to Tashal along the same road.”

The Knight of Larani judged the words, nodded, and spurred his horse ahead.

Mistress Kaelyn watched the two knights and shook her head. Those two ale heads had no sense of anything at all.

A riderless horse was brought to the muster area, and the wagon that bore the body of the Prince followed. Over the wagon was draped a canvas shroud. To the discerning eye it was a section of the royal tent that had been cut to cover the wagon. A painter, in haste, had placed the difference upon the arms to mark them as Prince Torasa’s own.

Sir Tenden Ryselith, the Captain of the Low Guard, had been silent and uninvolved in everything that had transpired since the murder. Now however he rode out with a bare blade to take the position of honor at the head of the wagon.

Sir Æomund addressed his liege lord, “Sir Ewen, we have four knights of the order here. With your permission we would like to be the honor guard for the wagon of the prince.”

“Sir Æomund, you have my leave and my thanks for the offer.”

The four knights took up posts around the wagon. Sirs Æomund and Houla took up the positions at the head of the wagon, two others to the rear. Sir Ewen cantered past the mustering of paid mourners to the very head of the column. Those of noble station took up a position behind the wagon.

The hot humid drizzle began to turn to rain. The still air had unintended consequences for those who rode to the rear of the wagon. The corrupting body of the Prince produced a sweet, but sickly odor of death upon all. From time to time, popping noises could be heard from within the sepulchral cart. For some the tears that were being shed and the covering of faces was not strictly from mourning.

As they moved north towards Tashal the wind changed directions and a reprieve was granted to those in the rear, while now the front of the column was haunted by the death pall of odor. Petros of Arandin after a time rode forward to his master. He held his hand to the knight and handed him a cloth.

“The lady says while your skill at dancing is still in doubt your riding is not. Also here at least is a useful tool for a sour journey” the squire smiled. “Sir Æomund, as your squire I am honor bound to tell you. You did a horrible job of that back there. It may be better if I just hit you over the head, she could feed you from a spoon and you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

“This is a funeral Petros.”

“You’re smiling.”

The knight, his face blank, slowly turned in his saddle to look at his squire and arched an eyebrow.

Petros nodded, but smiled and fell back behind the wagon.

Sir Houla next addressed the knight, “he will be a fine squire for you Sir Æomund, in many ways.”

Sir Æomund smiled, “I’m not a lunger.” The smell for the rest of the journey was greatly improved.

The procession wound its way towards Tashal and the combination of heat and rain made for a miserable journey. Those within earshot of the Serekela were bombarded by a rolling funeral oration for the greater part of the trip. The tarp did little to contain the smell of the dead body and the hasty paint job on the coat of arms began to run, shedding golden colored tears upon the ruts and rivulets marring the road.

Reaching the capital city the procession wrapped its way along the outer wall to enter the city by the Heru gate, closest to the royal castle. They were stopped by the guards who seemed to be confused by the procession and awaited the arrival of their sergeant.

The Serekela made his way forward and presented his staff to the gate and spoke in a loud voice. “Stand aside! We bear the body of a slain Prince.”

The guards all seemed uncertain at this point as to what to do, but the gate was opened the cortege made its slow progress to the castle. The rear of the procession had hardly stopped when the Earl of Balim exited the castle, made for the Serekela and briefly spoke to him. The Earl then motioned to Sir Tenden to get the cart inside quickly.

While the wagon rumbled forward the Serekela turned to the crowd, “Bless you all for escorting the sweet prince to his rest, we must now bring him into the bosom of his family. There will be a service at the temple tomorrow morning everyone is welcome, thank you. “

Without any further ceremony the crowd broke up and drifted away.

Agrazhar 22, 732

The next morning in Raven Hall Sotor of Pelanby discussed the findings of his inquiry into the blade with Sir Ewen.

“You see Sir Ewen the poison has continued to dry upon the blade since it was wrapped. The assumption I have made on the rate at which it is drying is that the poison will be completely dry in thirty-six hours. Based on that rate the fully coated dagger would have been poisoned at approximately the same time it was drawn, meaning that the substance was in the scabbard. The scabbard was filled with the posion or was set in such a manner that it would be coated as soon as it was drawn. Only one poison indicates cold extremities that tingle as they cool. Wolfsbane or monk’s Hood. A small amount will kill an animal, a modest amount will kill a man. It is derived from an herb grows in the foothills of mountains. The question is did the prince know that it was there?”

Sir Ewen follows the conversation and the analytical approach perfectly, “How would the prince have acquired the substance to begin with?”

“The herb is indigenous to Kaldor and I wanted to solicit the aid of Kitteria in order to obtain some so as to first confirm that it is in fact Monk’s Hood.”

Walin appears at the door of the study.

“The royal guard is at the door to the hall.”

Sir Ewen arched an eyebrow, “They want to see me?”

“No Sir Ewen, they desire to see your wife. As she is not here, what do you wish me to relay to them?”

“I’ll handle it.”

Ewen removes to the great hall where he sees six royal guardsmen and one cloaked figure.

“I am told you seek my wife? What is it that you wish?”

The single cloaked figure in the room steps forward and removes their hood. The person underneath revealing immediately to all at hand that it is in fact the Queen.

Those present in the room bow.

“Sir Ewen please rise, I have come to seek your wife, and do so in the most extreme circumstance.”

“I must admit that she has not returned with me due to her condition. She is still in Varayne.”

“Yes, I was told that she was in such a condition … I suppose Sir Ewen that you were present in Varayne?”

“Yes, I was and …”

The Queen held up a gloved hand to silence him immediately.

“Sir Ewen is there a place where we may talk in private?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Guards wait here.”

The two make their way up the stairs to the study, Ceikiya suspecting the destination of Sir Ewen and the Queen entered the study and secreted herself within to observe and hear the conversation between the two. Once in the study the Queen took a seat, but the first Knight of Kaldor remained standing.

“You are aware that one of my sons is dead?”

“Yes,” was the simple response of Sir Ewen.

“You witnessed it?”

Again, “Yes.”

“Please tell me what happened.”

Sir Ewen paused for a moment and thought. He chose his words carefully for the Queen.

“I will tell you as I saw it, the princes had some disagreement over a lady.”

Upon this first statement the Queen slouched in the chair and covered her eyes.

“I believe that Prince Torasa had imbibed a certain amount of spiritous liquor.”

The Queen interrupted, “Do you mean he was drunk?”

“Yes. He appeared so when he came forward in the tent. I was standing near Prince Brandis when Prince Torasa approached and spoke of the girl he was dancing with, Prince Brandis laughed.”

Sir Ewen paused and waited.

The Queen looked up and broke the silence first, “I know this is hard for you.”

“Your Grace, the thought that it happened under my roof is …

“No one wants such slaughter in their house, but please continue.”

“Prince Torasa drew his blade in response to his laughter and took steps towards Prince Brandis. You must understand this happened all very quickly, they struggled for the blade, and Prince Brandis gained possession of it … and turned it upon his brother.”

“You say this happened quickly?”

“Faster than for me to tell the tale. Prince Torasa was struck once by the blade and fell, Prince Brandis called for his guards and fled the tent. My personal physician, who was there in the tent, sought to care for the prince but … I gather it was quick your highness, if that is any comfort at all.”

“I have no comfort in this matter,” was the hollow response from the Queen.

“Yes Highness.”

The Queen paused and gazed absently at the books in the study. Finally she asked, “Who was the girl?”

“The girl was Meleine Curo a younger sister of Meden Curo.”

“You mean a daughter of the Earl of Neph?”

“I said sister of Sir Meden because he was there.”

“Yes of course,” she replied absently, “there are rumors that the Earl is ill.”

“Yes I have heard that as well.”

“I thank you for your candor Sir Ewen, it means a great deal to me as a mother if not as a Queen.”

“I can say that my wife was near me and saw these things as well. If you desire to speak with her I will assign a guard to escort you to Varayne. I know the comfort of another noble lady is greater than what I can provide.”

“Thank you, but I will never set foot in Varayne. While I thought to speak with the Lady Thilisa that is no longer necessary, but I have found myself doubly in your debt. The first time for marrying Thilisa and the second in telling me the same story of the deed that my other son has told. You discretion is appreciated and noted.”

“It should go without saying that if you or any member of your family require my assistance please call upon me.”

“You have the gratitude of my house and I will call upon you.”

She rose, exited the study and made her way downstairs to her guards, as quickly and quietly as she had entered Ravenhall she had departed.

From the balcony Sir Ewen called to his scribe, “Kaelyn, I need you to take a note and have it sent to Tharda House.”

The two retired back into the study.


Later that evening Sir Ewen, accompanied by his two knights made his way to a private room at Gallopea’s Feast to meet with the Baron of Stimos. As usual a room was prepared.

“My Lord Baron, such a pleasure to see you, thank you for coming.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here, congratulations on a most excellent tourney and its spectacular ending.”

Sir Baris was unable to restrain himself, “I almost won, I should have won.”

The stray comment faded off into the night and the Baron continued, “Bit of a problem there at the end wasn’t there?”

“For Kaldor perhaps. We had hoped you would have some insight on how the castle is taking things.”

“I thought you might. Not well, in fact with a great deal of complexity. I gather that you know that Prince Brandis fled to the castle.”

“Yes, in fact his mother the Queen came to see me in my home.

“Indeed, that will put some noses out of joint. She never visits other houses.

“Her Highness made an exception to come see me. The neighbors might have noticed the royal guards.

“Yes, the neighbors. One you have under house arrest, rumor has it he is drinking quite heavily, but the others perhaps.

“I’ll have to look in on him, it would be unfortunate for him to impair his own health, but we veer astray.”

“I went to the castle this morning, but the King as you might imagine did not hold court.”

“When was the last time he did?”

“Not for some time but there was much standing about and peddling of rumors. There was talk that the King spent the last evening in a great rage railing and the servants are terrified. They say the King has gone mad and perhaps he has. Prince Brandis is under house arrest, not far from his father’s chambers, and under lock and key. And the Earl of Balim scurries back and forth trailed by his cousin. I saw his son, Sir Scina.

The knight chuckled a little at the mention of his name and looked at Sir Æomund, “If he bears a scar its by the lance and sword of our friend Sir Æomund here.”

“He was speaking strangely. Whatever happened it’s serious.”

“I wonder if Sir Scina would see his wife on the throne?”

“Why?” Inquired the Baron of Stimos.

“Well Brandis has placed himself in some difficulty if he were to succeed his father in the minds of the peers of the realm.”

“So he did kill his brother.” The confirmation of the news caused the Baron to reevaluate what he had seen in the castle to date.

“Oh yes in front of everyone too,” replied Sir Baris. “It involved a girl, but I made sure she was all right amidst the scuffle.”

“How did you arrange that?” The question was not meant for Sir Baris and though he was about to respond until Sir Æomund shook his head at him.

The Baron continued, “Well, well, well, so Brandis has killed his brother, no wonder Scina went straight to his father. His wife is next in line ... Of course they have a son as well.”

“That branch is stronger to bear the crown now.”

The thought continued, “That explains Sir Harapa as well. His wife is an Elendsa, and he has two children, lord chamberlain, king consort … He has been almost nowhere to be found. His children are in Getha, though they are nearly grown. He would want to get his wife out of Tashal I believe.”

Sir Ewen changed the subject slightly, “Have you heard anything about the Ladies Cheselyne?”

“Not here, but at your manor of Varayne they had a private meeting with the Earl of Osel and his two sons.”

“It pleases me that your means of information gathering are still useful dear Baron. You know that the Earl’s youngest son won the tournament?”

“I have only just learned that,” drolled the baron.

“I am sure that his success will do nothing to curb the appetite of his father.”

The Baron’s response was emphatic, “I am afraid it will only grow.”

“It would be of inestimable value to me to hear what observations you may come across in the castle.”

“I am at your disposal.”

“Perhaps we should make a regular event of these dinners, twice a week if it meets your schedule.”

“I can tell you that soratir three days hence will be an interesting one.”

“I will certainly be present. Why my lord Baron, is this a tease?

“I would never do that. It is my expectation that some of the discussions had at the tournament will bear some fruit by then. Discussion between Osel and Lady Cheselyne for one.”

“Sounds like some banns will be exchanged then at that point. I gather the King’s health is sufficient for him to engage in raged tantrums.”

“I don’t know about his health but the rage and tantrums happened without a doubt.”

“And are you still enjoying the attentions of a certain lovely lady?”

“Ahhh yes - I might have to marry her.”

Sir Ewen smiled. “Have you heard aught of your Melderyni counterpart?”

“He was called away, but not back to Tashal. I am not sure where he is at present.”

“Just as well, for his champion did not fair as well as expected.”

“I hear he left right after that. I know he hasn’t quit the kingdom; whatever he is up to he will be back.”

Sir Ewen nodded and made to refill the goblet of Lord Stimos. His thoughts regarding his eldest half-brother, he kept to himself.
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