The lead knight made a mock bow, as if the ships master was a lord in his own right. "Ge'afternoon, sar, might we speak to ye for a moment? We be seeking passage to that troubled realm in the North. Wayrest be our point of interest. The guards at the told me companions and I that we could seek passage from a ship in the docks that matched your's description. Might ye be able to make room for four Dwynnites?"

OOC: They don't always have to be these massive beasts

"Why? Curious to know if there's room for one more?"

With that reply Parthia almost smirked. "Maybe i'm jealous..." She picked up her left hand tracing the edge of Rethan's tankard with her index finger. Her face remained in that same bored expression even though she really being 'social.'

"You know, my dear, usually when attempting to flirt with a man, looking at him as if you're about to fall over dead doesn't come across as charming."

And she recieved a bit of a scolding for that. The tip of Parthia's tongue quickly slipped across her lips as she raised a curious eye brow at the Dunmer. At first she felt like striking him as he leaned in but decided to remain calm. "If I were you, I would be careful asking questions such as these. If you must know, I am a personal guard for her ladyship, hired by the Lord Woodborne, her father. I am to keep my identity low, so that I can protect the lady more efficiantly. To make accusations such as the ones you are suggesting, could easily be seen in a dim light by him."

Parthia decided to remain quiet to that remark. She did however keep in mind his scent. It was one of the fastest ways to remember someone. A face or a name you could forget, a scent on the other hand stayed with you forever. "What's your story then? You don't look like any town guard I've seen." Rethan continued leaning back. She took note that he folded his arms across himself, a bit of a defensive manner to sit in. Taking advantage of the situation she reached over taking the tankard and sipping from the liquid and then placing it back.

"I'm not really a town guard. More of a...specialist." She pulled back the cloak covering her head and pulled out the auburn braid she had hidden. The loose robe slid off her left shoulder partially before she caught it pulling it back up.



The two sisters knew that Anticlere had no choice but to comply and the further the Dominion's grasp stretched, the less and less they could offer any bit of resistance. Lord Direnni had calculated correctly and soon his vengeance would befall the petty queen. Everything she had built up, he would tear down brick by brick, baron by baron. Parwen and Uurwen lived for his commands.

"Our Lord is pleased to hear this."

"We assume that we have your word..."

"...for permission for a military force to march through..."

"...and camp a bit east of Anticlere?"


(OOC: This has been a bad week for me. =/ )

Edwinn Gastin, Just South of Farrun

Edwinn looked upon the looming walls of Farrun with more then a little apprehension. And it was rightly warrented, given the fact that many peasants had confiemed the rumors about Farrun becoming part of the Nordic Confederation were now proven to be true.

This indeed changed everything, in terms of Northpoints and Farrun's trade pacts and mutual friendship. If Farrun was supported by the Nords, they might not need Northpoints trade anymore, and that would severely hurt their economy as Farrun was their biggest trade partners.

As the gates grew closer, Edwinn could hear the many whispers of the infantry behind him, as well as some mumbling from the Knights, though these were scarce and scattered, knowing their place. Edwinn glanced backwards, bringing a swift hush from his men, as he readjusted his thick hood, pulling it further over his face before looking back to the city ahead. He was growing anxious now, as he wanted to discover the fate of the Duke of Farrun and whether he survived the change of power in the lands.

The change was obvious, as they managed to almost march right up to the gates, before spotting guards at the entrance. Edwinn hastily called a halt with an upraised hand, as his men stopped in near perfect unison, demonstrating the increasing professionalism of Northpoint's military.

"Hail, good men of Farrun!" he called strongly, his hood still pulled over his head as Gauvin brought his horse behind his mentor. "I come with word from Lord Francis de Guiralle of Northpoint, and wish to speak with Duke of your city!"

He and his men waited anxiously for the response, wondering whether it would be one of friendship, or one of much worse consequences....


Edgar Gaerwing, Just North of Camlorn

The aged but still dignified Knight stared at the mighty city of Camlorn, only minutes away, as his Knights waited behind him, and being so close to the city, many peasants were around, going about their various jobs, glancing at the foreign Knights, with their armor of "waves" and Edgar's unique helmet tucked under his arm.

He breathed the salty sea air, and a grin spread across his face, as he turned back to his men. "Come on lads, the mission calls." he said, as he began a quick trot towards the mighty gates of the city, his men following their Master closely, observing the land around them as they drew closer to the city.

Edgar expected guards to approach him on the road, instead of letting them ride right up to the gate, but he kept on moving towards the city, slowing down in respect to the Lord's right to keep guests at bay if he wished.


Lord Francis de Guiralle and Garend Arctavius, Northpoint

The assassin stood in front of the silver throne, Lord de Guiralle sitting with his face in his palm as was his custom when entertaining "lesser" guests. The man at least presented himself well, even if he was an assassin. A useful assassin however, as Francis had employed the man twice and had never been suspected of the two murders committed.

Garend stared up at the Lord, a bored look on his handsome face, as he fiddled with a loose string on his shirt. The man still had not recieved his gold, and he was growing a little impatient, his eyes occasionally darting around to see if the servant had returned with his payment.

That drew a smile from Francis, as he looked around too for the lad sent for the gold, but his thoughts remained miles away, on Sharnhelm, which had been dominating his thoughts lately. The city was constantly a thorn in his fat side, and mostly because the Lord of the city had once dueled Francis, back in his prime, and Francis had bested the man, who had been younger and rather proud, always duelling and always winning except for the one time.

And fate would have it that the two would come to inherit the neighboring lorddoms, as rivals, and would keep the feud between the two lands going, their rivalry adding to the already high flames. Their motives were unknown, but Francis figured the two kingdoms would remain as serparate as their proximity would allow.

His thoughts were disrupted by the return of the boy, as he held a large sack that jingled in his hand. Garend's eyes lit up at the sound, as the edges of his mouth curved upwards, stretching out his hands as the boy dropped the gold into those murderous hands.

the assassin dipped into a shallow bow, if only to keep his head. "Thank you Mister de Guiralle." he said, as he came up from his bow smiling.

Franics merely nodded, as he waved the man away, though he stopped the man before he made it out the doors. "If you would stay in the city for a few more days, I may have another job for you." he said. "This would pay double your last job...." he added, teasing the assassin.

The Imperial turned slowly, a playful look on his face as he regarded the Lord. "And what might this job involve?" he asked, truly interested with the pay of this job, but knowing it would involve quite the risk if it payed so well.

"Nothing for you to know at this moment. Not until I confirm the job needs doing, lest your loose tongue slip up in the taverns while the drinks flow." he said swiftly, keeoing in control of the meeting.

The assassin grinned, but it faded a second later. "It may be hard to secure lodgings in your city..." he trailed off, using every bit of self control to not smile widely at this remark, as he knew full well he intended to stay in the city, whether he got the job or not.

Lord de Guiralle's face flushed red at this, as he gritted his teeth and glanced over at the bored looking mage. "Perhaps Hubert there could assist you by turning you into a rabbit and shoving you down a hole!" he exclaimed, forcing the mage to look up quickly in surprise, not expecting to be brought into this meeting.

Garend merely bowed, playing the arrogant game perfectly, knowing his skills were needed by the Lord, no matter how much he annoyed him. "Well then, I shall be on my way, lest I be turned into something. I shall be on the waterfront, in one of it's fine hotels and possibly in the company of one of it's fine ladies." he added, holding up the gold and winking. He beat a hasty retreat from the hall before the Lord could reply, and laughed all the way to the docks, as he bought a room for a few nights, along with some wine and the "company" of a particularly busty Breton girl.

Back in the Castle, Francis fumed silently, cursing the incredibly useful assassin. The job he had been talking about was one that he wasn't sure of, as he needed to learn the doings of Sharnhelms Lord. If they didn't please Francis, the assassin would have a new mark....

White Haven

White Haven was, arguably, one of the most beautiful towns in Northern Bretony. Built on the northern foothills of the Wrothgarian Mountains, the place maintained a charming air that could not be found in larger cities like Sharnhelm or Meir Darguard. Here one could not find entrepreneurial Cyrodiilic merchants or swarthy foreigners from Hammerfall or Morrowind. Instead , one found a halcyon village of little thatched-roof cottages idyllically overlooking green, rolling pastureland where grazing herds of sheep and cattle were watched by sleepy shepherds.

This tranquil village was dominated by two structures ? the forbidding Temple of Arkay in the west and the sprawling, palatial "hunting lodge" of Eliot du Monferato in the east. Monferato had been a Baron of Sharnhelm some centuries earlier, and his only notable achievement was the construction of this lodge. Since his time, the Barons of Sharnhelm have all customarily taken up residence there during the spring so as to "get away" from all the bustle at court.

But sometimes escaping from court was counter-productive.

"Gods' damn it all!" roared Brendan as he burst into his son's study. Cadwallace looked up from the scrolls of parchment spread out before him, an inquiring look on his face.

"Do you recall the force we sent to Wayrest to serve in Elysana's war against the Nords?" Brendan demanded.

"Yes," said his son mildly, putting down his pen and leaning back in his seat. "1500 longbowmen, and something like 1000 pikemen."

"1345 pikemen," fumed the Baron, "Counting officers. And of these 2845 men do you know how many reported back to Wayrest ? alive?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Thirty-one. Thirty-one survivors from a force of two-thousand. Oblivion take Elysana!"

"I'd think Woodborne is more to blame," said Cadwallace, a slight smile on his face.

"Oblivion take Woodborne too!" shouted Brendan, his face blotchy and red. After a few moments he recovered himself. "I'm sorry, my son. I get so frustrated away from court. It's impossible to get anything done."

Cadwallace raised his eyebrows.

"Listen, Cadwallace. I need you to go to Northpoint for me."

"Northpoint? Is this about our mining operation outside of Thorkan Park?" asked Cadwallace. The Baron trusted his son implicitly and had put him in charge of running Sharnhelm's part of the jointly-run mine.

"In part. But mostly I need you to take this letter to Lord de Guiralle." The Baron produced the letter from the folds of his doublet, already sealed with Brendan's signet. Cadwallace took it and pocketed it. He asked no questions, though Brendan knew he was curious.

"While in Northpoint, you must behave with outmost courtesy to Lord de Guiralle and his underlings. Our relations with Northpoint have become increasingly friendly over the last several years, and we must not jeopardize that ? now that Elysana's little alliance is failing especially. I'd ask that you depart by this afternoon. Take on of the Knights of the Clouded Mirror with you ? perhaps Charles du Roman; he's always congenial."

Cadwallace responded "Certainly, father," and tried to hide his astonishment. The Baron was not known for making decisions on the fly like this; nor did he often encourage his children to be polite to Francis de Guiralle.

Brendan nodded. "Go to it then." He was just leaving the room, when he suddenly turned around and said, "Perhaps you could convince your sister to accompany you."

Cadwallace started. "Diana?"

"No, Livia. The fresh air will do her good."

White Haven-Sharnhelm Road; Later that Day

"I can't believe you convinced me to come with you," sulked Livia. "You know how I hate traveling! And this road is simply dreadful this time of year."

The road was indeed dreadful, all muddy and trampled after a spring shower. Cadwallace guided his horse around a wagon rut and tried to block out his sister's wailing. Just before him he could see the break in the mountains that marked the beginning of the wide and prosperous Sharnhelm valley.

He turned back in his saddle to look at his sister and the heavily-mustachioed Charles du Roman.

"Hurry up. We've got to reach the city by nightfall, or we'll be forced to camp on the roadside!"

Rethan Andrano, Wayrest.

"A specialist, eyh? In what, stealing other people's drinks?"

Rethan grinned wickedly, his crimson eyes almost twinkling with a spark of mischievousness. The metal tankard filled with cold beer was about half empty, or half full as some would say. Upon removing her hood, the Dunmer eyed Parthia, drinking in her features. Indeed, she wasn't half bad looking to Rethan, and when hearing she wasn't offically a guard, well...that just proved to be even more interesting.

Although it was, mildly put, tempting to allow his eyes to wander where her robe had slid off, Rethan kept his face calm, keeping his eyes on Parthia's face. Guard or no guard, there was no trust in her, and to leave himself exposed just for one moment of pleasure, would be foolish. Surely he knew better than so. But how in Mephala's name did a "specialist" end up working as a mere body guard. Sure, he knew why he was doing it, but that was different.

Hmm..I suppose Ev?lyn can wait on the letter. Nothing of importance there anyways, nothing urgent at least. The girl is more distrusting of others than a Dunmer! Heh. Perhaps she's her aunt's daughter instead, but just somehow managed to be fair skinned? Heh Heh. She should, however, trust her mother more...yes the queen is devious, but in the end, they both care for the kingdom of High Rock.

"So...how did someone like you end up working at the castle?"

Ev?lyn, Wayrest.

Wayrest. My fair home town. To see it in flames would bring great tradgedy to my heart, as it would without any doubt, to my mother. I have always trusted in my mother, yes, but in these times I can not help but worry. If word is true, and that her allies are wishing to be break free from her hand, then what would befall us? Would Wayrest be under siege, and the family crushed under the feet of it's wrecker? Perhaps I should just tell her this, instead of finding other ways. I admit, I wish for the crown, but do I think I could undo what she has done? No. Only she can do that now.

With a heavy sigh, Ev?lyn gazed out the window of her bedroom chambers. The view was heavenly, ever since she was a child, she had loved to sit there and drink her tea, whilst admiring all the things she could see from there. At times she could even see the people of Wayrest, passing the castle whilst they went on with their daily lives.

In truth, Ev?lyn revered her mother higher than any other, even her father. As a queen, Elysana was brilliant. As a woman she was strong willed, and possessed a keen mind. Elysana had fought tooth and nail against her step brother, Helseth to claim the throne. This was something Ev?lyn admired her mother immensly for. She never did understand why Helseth sulked so afterwards, he did afterall get Morrowind.

Despite all of this, Ev?lyn feared for the safety of Wayrest. Ever since the dominion and nords were slowly pressing towards them, the young breton was afraid, not for herself, but for her home. It got to the point where she felt it was her mother's fault for letting it get so far, in which made her almost feel...resentment.

Since her mother's return, the few days of peace had given Ev?lyn time to reflect, and ponder over actions and thoughts she had commited or dreamed of. Rethan had not yet sent any letter to her, meaning there was nothing of significance. All was good then...for now.

There is an important matters which remains however. How many allies does Wayrest hold? It is more than possible that some left after hearing of mother's captive state, but what now after she was rescued? I must speak with mother...suicide or not, I am the eldest. I have a right to know what happens to the kingdom.

"I'd have room for four dozens Dwynnites, if each paid for t' journey." The captain responded, choosing to ignore the mock bow. "We'll be castin' off soon; I've got wares to take 'n sell in Wayrest. T' journey ain't gonna cost much for ye, I charge a mere twenty septims a person. Take it or leave it; I won't be lowering t' price a single coin, just so ye know..."


Manfred

Manfred nodded. "Of course. However, I believe your lord will understand that a camp right on top of our suburbs may be viewed as an occupation by some citizens; to avoid discontent and inappropriate behavior from some of the rasher citizens, I will regretably have to instruct my garisson forces to set fire to the lights on the towers and be on their guard. That would show that Anticlere had not dropped the knee to, but shook the hand of the Dominion, and that we accepted your friendship by free will. In time, my peoples will hopefully come to trust this arrangement completely, and no more such means will be neccesary. Additionaly, my troops would then be ready to come to your aid immediately should the need arise for that, which hopefully will not happen."

His temples began throbbing slightly, and the Flyte of Anticlere was hopeful that the two 'diplomats' would leave now, content with what they had achieved, and he could see his son, consult the Psijic - the old man was, after all, his advisor now - and perhaps get some sleep. Yes, sleep... Mara knows, I desire that strongly. Manfred supressed a sigh, feeling weary at the mere thought of sleep. Something told him that getting some sleep was most important to him now, but even with the matters at hand, he couldn't abbandon his son or ignore the priceless advice a Psijic could offer.


The two gate guards looked at each other. They represented well the current state of Farrun - one was a Nord, heavily armored and leaning against a pike, while the other was a Breton in padded leather, his back against the wall, with a longbow leaned against it as well to his left. A speechless exchange followed the man's shout - the Nord gestured towards the men not far off from the gates; the Breton responded with a shrug. The Solitudian infantryman gave the archer a 'well, go on and do something!' look, however the reply was a shake of the Breton's head, followed up by a silent grumble. The Nord seemed to understand what his colleague said and thus took a few steps forward, sighing silently before speaking out:

"Before you are allowed into Farrun to speak with my Khnyaz, Vytatus Great-Mouth, there's a question that I must ask of you, Northpointer, and I think you could've predicted it long before you could see our walls. Is your Duke with Queen Elysana or with Velikiy Khnyaz Rurik Far-Stride, with the Kingdom of Wayrest or with the Nordic Confederation? In other words, is he a foe or a friend to our Khnyaz and our city?"

Wrothgarian Mountains

A stag was grazing silently in the little mountain meadow, its breath billowing out visibly into the frosty morning air. Something stirred in the undergrowth and the buck tensed, preparing to flee. After a moment of absolute silence, he snorted, twitched his ears irritably and resumed his breakfast.

On the eastern edge of the meadow, in the shadow of the ancient pines, a huntress watched the deer. Diana, holding her entire body rigid and barely breathing, edged closer one step at a time. In her right hand she held a steel-tipped hunting spear, raised above her head and ready to throw.

Something in her right temple throbbed painfully.

She didn't care. In moments like these she felt alive in a way that others didn't. She sensed everything in a new and miraculous way: the way the light streamed down in golden ribbons from the heavens, the nearly inaudible sound of her boot scuffing the ground as she adjusted her footing, the musky scent of the deer and of her own sweat, the cool touch of wind on her bare arms, the rough wood of the spear against her fingers.

She took a decisive step forward and let fly.

The spear hit the stag before it could react, smashing through its fragile ribcage and collapsing one lung before piercing the heart. The animal took a couple of tentative steps, blinking stupidly, before crashing to its knees. The huntress was on it at once, her long-bladed knife flashing merrily as it ripped through the deer's jugular.

Diana looked up at the sun, a broad smile of exultation on her face. She cupped her hands together to collect some of the warm blood spurting out of the beast's neck, then raised then to her lips to sample it. Sanguine fluid dribbled down her chin, flowed over her bosom, and splattered over the front of her tunic ? and she never stopped smiling.

This is life!

Northpoint

Cadwallace and his companions reached Northpoint after three long but uneventful days of travel. Their party was increased now to five in number ? in Sharnhelm they picked up one of Livia's handmaids and one of the court's footmen. Now before the walls of Northpoint, they worked to make sure they were presentable. Cadwallace straightened his doublet and put on a fresh traveling cloak, Livia fussed over her dress and her hair ? even the stoic Knight of the Clouded Mirror, Charles du Roman, made a halfhearted effort to straighten his tangled locks and smooth out his enormous black moustache.

When they were ready, Cadwallace approached the gates and called out, "Hail Northpoint! We are emissaries from the court of Sharnhelm. Please grant us entry!"

Edwinn watched the silent exchange with a little curiosity, noting the strangely lethargic action (or lack of action) of the Breton man. He put it out of his mind as the Nordic guard spoke up finally, asking his question, one that he had indeed been expecting, but not by a simple guard.

The question put him on a difficult spot though, as he remembered his Lord's last note, stating that they were to remain "loyal" to Wayrest and Elysana for now, until they could figure out the motives of their allies. Unfortunately, Edwinn doubted they would gain a meeting with the Duke if he admitted they were loyal to Wayrest. The news of a new Duke, this Vytatus, shook the vampire Marshall more then a little, but deep down he knew the Nords would replace the leader of Farrun with one of their own.

He was thinking quickly, as he heard a few whispers from behind. This meeting was crucial, and he needed to see the new leader of the city. He raised his head as he called out. "The Lord of Northpoint chosen to remain neutral in this conflict." This wasn't exactly a lie, as Francis had indeed decided to remain neutral when troops were being gathered to go to war with the Nords.

He paused for a second, pulling his hood a little lower over his eyes. "Northpoint means Farrun no harm, and if you must know, my business is about our cities trade!" he called, knowing he had chosen the path for Northpoint if Elysana ever found out that they did trade with the Confederation.





Northpoint Gates

The two men flanking the gates watched as a group of five people made their way up to the gates, dressed much better then the many peasants that were passing through the gates into the city. The guards pushed themselves off the wall from their stupor, and stood tall, their spears glinting slightly in the small bit of sunshine that pierced the clouds.

As the people called out their intentions, the two Breton guards glanced at each other, eyebrows raised as they knew of the rivalry between the Lords, before they glanced back to the people, noting they seemed rather well groomed for coming off the road. The man on the left of the gate took a step forward, and spoke loudly.

"Travelers from Sharnhelm, if you would kindly wait here while I fetch the Gate Captain!" he said, before rushing off inside the small door cut into the wall, leaving the other guard to stand alone, looking at each face in front of him, clutching his spear tightly. He breathed a sigh of relief however, as the sound of voices came back from the door, and out stepped a rather heavy looking Breton, with blond hair, giving truth to the fact that the city had as much Nordic heritage as it did Bretic.

The man waved the guard away as he stepped up to the people from Sharnhelm. His chain hauberk clinking slightly as he moved, and his axe gleaming at his side. "Welcome to our fair city, travelers from Sharnhelm." he exclaimed. "My man tells me you are emissaries from the court of your Lord, and you seek entrance to our city?" he asked, rhetorically apparently as he continued on without pause.

"You shall of course be allowed into our city, with open arms too!" he exclaimed, quite eccentrically as was his norm. "Tell me your business here, as well as your names, and I shall send a man ahead to inform the Lord of your coming." he finished, beckoning the other guard to his side.

As Tudor stood he tilted his head slightly and somewhat lifted his chin just a bit. There was a formal informality about everything Tudor did, even listening. He assumed the Queen put up with his bravado since he was popular with the soldiers, or at least Tudor thought so. "Sounds boring...but i'll do it." His eyes shifted from Elysana to Emmen briefly and then back. In Elysana she could see her daughters. They were all beautiful, but dangerous in their own way.

"Perhaps Evalyn could accompany me? It would be inspiring to the troops and her beauty would win the heart of the people to you." Tudor grinned slightly. All this was true but that wasn't really his personal interest.

"Quite fond of her aren't you?" Corsica's calm reserved presence stepped beside Tudor bowing to the Queen.

"Envy is a cute color on you, instructor." Tudor grinned at his former teacher from the military academy. She however ignored his comment and stepped just infront of him.

"Pardon me Queen Elysana but would you like me to make preperations for your trip?" Corsica, Kaasha, Varulae, Parthia, Varulae and Andrethi were the Queen's Elites. Experts arcane agents specialized to do the Queen's bidding. Who would the Queen want to come along? Parthia was still somewhere in the city, Kaasha at the fighter's guild, Varulae and Andrethi together somewhere. It was up to Corsica to ask the important questions as usual.

"If I may interject my Queen, i'd like for Andrethi to come with me and command my light cavalry." Tudor bowed smiling. It was no secret the two had a bit of a rivalry going on and this was just a chance for Tudor to boss Andrethi around. Generally the latter ignored the former but when he did not someone ended up hurt. It was also a ploy by Tudor to keep Varulae and Andrethi apart. He knew Varulae was Elysana's favorite sorceress and would take her to Daggerfall with her.




"Maybe just your drinks." Parthia's soft lips curled into a slight smile. "Come fill our tankard please!" Her voice called out to the servant who came and filled it back up fully. She took a few more gulps before placing it back infront of Rethan. She shifted her seat to 90 degrees to his seat around the circular table instead of across. Eye contact was now more minimal although proximety was closer. Her nature took on a bit more shyness even though by contrast she seemed more forward.

"The Queen found my abilities of use and hired me via the Mages Guild. Nothing much beyond that." Her nose began turning a little bit red and she seemed just a little bit off balance.


OOC:

Once this week is over i think i'll be able to post regular posts.

"I suggest we stay camped here for now, rather than continuing to press on." Wikrun spoke over the fire as Ree'Ja monitored the meat. "We have food and water, for now, and we can locate ourselves with the stream. This fog should be gone by the afternoon. And we still have two days time to report back to Reothern concerning our success."

"We had a job where we had to go seek out a small group of Necromancers causing a ruckus with the locals." Marsha explained to Arslan. "Just finished it, and now we're trying to find the town again." She looked at the sword he was inspecting with intrigued eyes. That was a sword she would not mind wielding.

"Sounds like a solid plan to me, Wik." Hukral replied, not even taking notice of Marsha speaking Yoku to Arslan the whole time.

Jassan, however, was; in just the corner of his eye he was watching the Redguard beside Marsha. The little elf was sitting cross-legged on the ground, still twirling that dagger in his fingers. He was watching. That sword was just within reach of Marsha; one flick of the wrist and her gut would be opened. And why wouldn't he? We are his enemies, we fought against him. We killed his kin in the war of Lainlyn Forest. We fought against his cause, and Redguards are stubborn folks; he should still hold resentment for that.

But he hasn't taken the advantage... yet. So for now, just remain cautious of the possibilities.

"How much did the stables charge per night to house our horses though?" Hukral brought up the question, and Wikrun frowned.

"We kept out horses in the town to move with more stealth, and less bodies to worry about." Marsha further explained, still looking at the sword curiously, noticing the uniqueness of the handle. "Did you make this yourself?" She asked, pointing at the blade.

"I think it was about ten gold pieces per night, and we've been gone for five so far. The contract is for 2,500 gold pieces, so if we take out the charge of about 12 gold from each of us, we could cover the expenses if they hold one more night." Wikrun calculated.

The Walls of Glenumbra



It was late afternoon, and the magically sprouted cookfires and camp defenses had already begun. Glenumbra's gates were already closed, barricaded and under the close watch of the town guard. The goblins took up the main lines, digging long lines of holes, not exactly organized, but enough to offer cover from the Bretic longbows. The Dominion troops had arrived under no hostilities, but when they closed their gates and attacked a goblin war patrol near the north side of the town, Lord Ancalimon had taken them as acts of war.

Ranks of tents sprung up among the high elven camp, seperated by a wall of wagons, makeshift palisade and other obstacles from the goblin camp, which consisted of half constructed ditchs, holes, earthen ramparts and rag tents. Blue and Yellow banners and pennets of Shimmerene and it's respective houses were erected above tents, and to the south west the tree line was littered with tall, golden, and rather loud bipedal birds. Surakeks served as mounts to the golden skinned elves whether they be pack animals, or war mounts they served the purpose Tamrielic horses did.

The bowmen assorted themselves closest to the wagons, they would be the first to use their weapons once the goblins were unleased. The elven infantry were working on constructing working, if not simple ladders for the goblin army. Two captains of the Shimmerenean infantry were speaking, the wings on their helmets trimmed with brass and they bore blue cloaks to cover their mithril armor.

" Hell will be unleashed tommorow, the green will take the walls and the bosmer will move along the walls. We wont have to fight until the work is done. We'll have the same share of the loot." One said, the two walking down a corridor of white tents, giving the appearance of giving a damn.

" I have no quarrel with the quartermasters, no grudge goes against the green. They do the work and get fed, its the life of animals. Even ones bred for killing." the other said, in an even thicker, more commanding tone.

The two strode to the center of camp, where a large purple tent had been erected. No doubt Lord Ancalimon and his entourage had set up a command tent.

~*~

A meeting had been called, the sixteen captains of shimmerene, the two from Rosefield, the five ranger captains and four Bosmer, plus Ancalimon and the master trainer of the goblins. The master trainer was a shady fellow, white hair sprouted from a dark and rather frail physique. Frail for an altmer at that, the gobin trainers had their fair amount of years in the underground. Breeding and punishing unruly beasts of all kinds, for countless years. Each batch coming from the mountains of the homeland numbering in the thousands.

Vile creatures, they breed like rats Lord Belzigar sneered, no one really seemed to notice but the array of military leaders in the room spelled nothing more or less than a council of war.

" Already, we've been attacked by these dogs."

disgruntlement settled throughout the coucil.

" Our green mass amongst the walls, the defenses of Glenumbra will fall if they do not negotiate. Already our Ranger patrols have already captured and setup trade check points. The siege has begun, if Glenumbra fails to recognize this, a siege will no doubt escalate into a full blown war between the Aldmeri Dominion-"

" All Hail the Dominion!" said the crowd as one.

" and these Breton ruled states will ensue, we have the support to retake our lands. The superiors in Alinor don't think we can do it, they have troops from all across the isles marching into Elsweyr like they're quelling a rebellion. Lets show our people we can do more with less, let us bathe in the glory of the dominion!"

Cheers arose, even the haggard and dirty master trainer applauded. If Glenumbra could be sacked, riches would pour into the coffers of Shimmerene and any Dominion citizen that manned the field in all of High Rock. Lord Ancalimon could carve out his own new empire on the murky coasts of High Rock. The mist and cold weather was most likeable to his personality...

if only they knew... Belzigar chuckled, the madness seething through his teeth.

Wayrest

Elysana enjoyed his cockiness sometimes, but she could not stand his insubordination. "No, and no, Marshall," she said, using his title to remind him of the situation. "Evelyn will decide her own course, after I speak with her. And Andrethi will not be coming with you, although I am sorry to deprive you of both your wishes." She didn't look very sorry, and that wasn't an oversight. The reason Emmen had stayed so long in her favour was not merely a cooincidence- the man understood her station, and that there were very thin lines between Elysana the woman and Elysana the Queen.

She looked to Corsica, and smiled. Elysana was most pleased with all of her elites, and Corsica was no exception. It was only a shame that she could not take them all with her. She repressed a shudder; she might well need them, if she was going to the heart of High Rock's Dominion. "Andrethi and Varulae will both come with me. Far be it from me to guess why, but they work well together," The tiny smile at the corner of her lips suggested she could guess, at least, why they worked well together. "Parthia will remain... where she is," The queen looked mildly sorry about this, but she gave no explanation. "If Kaasha could go with Tudor-" Gods, she only hoped Kaasha didn't fall into his bed. That could only complicate matters. "Then Corsica, I have something important in mind for you."

She looked to Tudor and Emmen. "If you please, sirs, I require time alone with Corsica. My dear Tudor," she smiled, and it was a smile that fill any man with warmth. "If you could go and make preparations for better defense of the East. I leave it in your capable hands." Emmen was stony faced as he watched his Queen and arch a single eyebrow at the Marshall. Turning slowly away from Tudor, she faced her assassin and manservant. "Emmen, if you would find Evelyn and tell her I wish to speak with her soon. I will meet her in my chambers. And if you send a summons for one Samuel Ross. I believe I have unfinished business with him."

Emmen left immediately, and Elysana stood, tall and proud, gazing at Corsica. Her gaze, as ever, was weighing, appraising... calculating. Until Tudor left as well, she would say nothing of what she planned for the Elite.

---

Emmen strode briskly down the stairs and through the corridors, heading directly for Evelyn's rooms. Despite his speed, he somehow managed not to bump into or even disrupt the walk of others, as if he were more insubstantial than he appeared. Finally, he came to her door, and knocked three times in rapid succession upon it, before taking a step back, that he might bow upon seeing the princess.

----------

Daggerfall

"I wish to meet with your overlords," Veruise said to an Elvish man, standing outside the palace. He did not wear armour of the guards, but everything about his bearing said he was an authority.

"They are in there," he said indifferently, jerking his thumb towards the palace.

"And might I be let in?"

"With heavy escort, yes," the altmer replied. Veruise smiled, but it seemed more like a predatory baring of teeth. That hardly seems enough...

"Take me in," she said. The altmer gestured to a few of the other elves standing outside, and the palace gates were opened enough to allow her and her 'escorts' entry.

"Neutrality is a dangerous position, because you can expect treachery from everywhere." The Breton at the gates mumbled, not expecting for the hooded man to hear his comment, oddly educated for a gateguard. In fact, these 'gateguards' weren't simple guards - in a time of uncertainness, Vytatus trusted the gate to two rather high-ranking officers, the Nord a former raider captain from Solitude, and the Breton one of the knights that served the previous Duke of Farrun.

"Trade was always loved by my peoples. Our Khnyaz will discuss these matters with the messengers from Northpoint. Open the gates!" The Nord yelled out the last part of his response, directing it at the gatehouse above him. For a moment, all was silent; then, the noise of chains clanging and wood creaking disturbed the silence, the gates slowly opening, revealing the busy main street of Farrun to the messengers. The war procession having recently ended, the streets were still bustling with people, discussing the first Nordic ritual carried out in Farrun, likely one of the many to yet come. Only the fact that soldiers, both Bretic and Nordic, were intermingled with the crowd revealed that something unusual for the city had recently occured.

"Our Khnyaz resides in the keep currently. You may find him there." The Nord pointed towards the far end of the street where, above the heads of people and the roofs of their houses, towered the quite imposing castle of Farrun, recently made the residence of Vytatus when he, by Rurik's 'suggestion' for the nobles of Farrun when their duke died mysteriously and left no children, became the Duke (or Khnyaz, as he was titled by Nords) of the city.

"Before you can enter the keep, however, you will have to leave all arms at its doorstep, as a sign of good will." The Breton added, still leaned against the wall and observing the messengers with a lazy look on his face.


Arslan

"I with my father." Arslan replied, looking at the blade with pride. "The handle I made on my own, and helped him with the blade itself. A warrior is only as good as his sword is; it is your second face, as he used to say, and you must know it well. And what better way to learn everything about your blade than by making it yourself?" Usual Ra Gada philosophy could easily be spotted in the nomad's words; they were a race proud of their natural skills with the blade, and even to an Ayuub a sword was second to none. Like a cannoneer of Sentinel would know every quirk of his cannon, thus a swordsman had to know everything special about his blade, which set it aside from others, for to a Ra Gada warrior, no blade was the same.

Now that he was separated from his homeland, this blade was a friend, a brother to Arslan; a piece of Hammerfall that would always be with him, just as with his bow, arrows and clothes. This sword had seen the dunes of Alik'R, tasted the blood of various beasts from the Great Desert. It was there during skirmishes with thieves and other, lesser nomad tribes; it was frequently the thin line between life and death for Arslan. In the War of the Wolves, this sword was also with him, and it was there when the Ra Gada descended on the Heartlanders and their allies at Lainlyn Forest. It was taken captive along with the nomad, and escaped with him as well.

"They must not have been particularly good horses if you would've had to worry about more bodies had you not left them?" Arslan suddenly snapped out of his thought, turning from the blade in his hand to Marsha. "I mean no offence in this, for to insult someone's horse is as bad as to insult the rider in my tribe, but should a good horse not move as one with the rider?"

Rethan Andrano, Wayrest.

"I see..."

Rethan smirked to himself as he watched Parthia chug down her drink. The tankard was quite big in size, and could hold a lot of the substance, he couldn't help but wonder if Parthia was aware of how much she was actually taking in. It was also quite a welcoming sight to see a woman, who did not look like a guar's ass, sit down and chug her drink. Most women in Wayrest were snooty, and would only sip their goblets of wine.

Feeling less tense than he did at first, Rethan laid his shoulders back, relaxing in his wooden chair. With his lips still curled into a smug smile, Rethan felt his curiousity rising, and as it so often did, and began to inquire Parthia about her proffesion.

"You know, Parthia, you never did tell me exactly what type of specialist you were. Last I checked, an alchohol thief didn't count. Come now, don't be shy, we are in a tavern after all."

Winking at her, Rethan took another chug from his own tankard. By now, he had grown used to alchohol, and it did not strike it's effects on him that quickly. The trick was to drink slowly, however five jugs of matze always got to him. Oh how he longed for the taste of sweet matze. Ever since he was a young boy, Rethan would go about stealing jugs of matze along with his childhood friends. Ah yes, those were the days. Drinking in the dark alley ways of Balmora, watching your back constantly for any of the advlts to walk by you. It was a fond memory indeed.

As Parthia turned herself slightly around, Rethan took the chance to study her closer. A Bosmer, obviously. Bosmer women had a certain charm to them, unlike the male version of the race. Rethan had always disliked male Bosmers. Annoying little fetchers they were. The women, on the other hand, he had no complaints about. Damn good with a bow too, or so is said about most of them. Rethan wondered if perhaps Parthia was an archer of sorts.

Ev?lyn, Wayrest.

"When the arcane and mundane are in balance, the army will move effortlessly, like a swinging door on well-oiled hinges. When they are out of balance, the army will be like a three-legged dog, with one leg always dragging in the dust.
Thus when the army strikes a blow, it will be like a thunderclap out of a cloudless sky. The best victories are those unforeseen by the enemy, but obvious to everyone afterwards."

With a groan, Ev?lyn closed shut the heavy book resting on the table. Her teacher had demanded that she finished reading "The Art of War Magic", though much of it was quite complicated, even to her. As a Breton, Ev?lyn was naturally skilled with magicka, holding basic knowledge over a few of the schools. Of course, she was no mage of any sorts, finding many of the schools to be too boring to fully master.

However, Mysticism was always something which interested her. There was something attractive about this particular magic school, though she couldn't quite place her finger on what. Oh how she loved tricking the maids with her basic spells as a child. The poor things never knew what it was. One time, an old cook even thought angry spirits were haunting the castle kitchen. Ulrith, her teacher, had of course scolded her harshly after that.

Upon hearing three knocks on the door, Ev?lyn woke from her thoughts, almost jumping in her place from the sudden interference. Didn't the servants know not to bother her when she was studying? Sighing, Ev?lyn rose from her seat, and opened the door to her room. Though when seeing who stood there, she was quite surprised. Smiling as she saw Emmen bow before her, Ev?lyn greeted him,

"Emmen, I was not expecting it to be you on my door. What brings you here to me?"

Wayrest forests
Marsha listened to him speak of the blade, watching his actions and expressions as he did so. He seemed to swell with pride at talk of the sword, which made Marsha smile. Like her father, he was; so in love with his smithing, so prideful of each piece of steel he crafted into a death-dealer. A good blade took long to make, developed with precision and care. Marsha brushed her left hand on the smooth blade of her naginata, and without looking at it brought the pole-arm forward, so the blade rested along the length of her thigh. Subconsciously she caressed the smooth, flat face, remembering her father. He'd made the naginata for her when she'd grown into her teen years, and taught her to use it to defend herself.

Just like she was cherishing her weapon, so to the Ayuub seemed to be cherishing his for a time, both of their eyes distant. He snapped to before she did, and brought her back to the present, however. She had to rethink what he said at first, taking her a while to respond.

"We... never used to use horses; they were a gift given to us during the war. Hukral's can somehow carry him, by some act of the gods. We are not quite as skilled as you in riding. And they could be noisy, could have trouble with the terrain, stuff like that. It was better to leave them; we only use them for travel between jobs, really." Marsha explained.

Wayrest (the city)
"So you really-?" Gawked the drunken Nord, laughing like a chocking hyena at the Breton's tale.

"Yep." Sam replied with a grin, his armored arms crossed over his chest and one foot propped on the table edge, tilting his chair back. He was sober-ish, but mainly because he was too busy telling his tale to drink. "Put a big blue smile right there on his chest with the paint on the sword."

"And they counted that as a hit?" Asked another man, an Imperial, who had an ale near his lips. "Strangest hit I have ever heard of in a tournament."

"I know, pissed the guy off real good too." Sam chuckled. "So mad, in fact, he got one good hit in on my ass, and the sword splintered!" Chuckling ensued around the tavern table. "I tell ya boys, pulling a six inch splinter from your ass is not something you want to repeat!" He shook his head and extended his left arm, putting his thumb down. The torchlight gleamed on his ebony gauntlet and pauldron, reflecting the dark metals on the surfaces of the tankards around him.

"I bet!" The Nord roared, slamming his fist on the table.

"So did you win?" The Imperial inquired.

"Yep."

Arslan

The Ra Gada nodded slowly. "I see... I take it they were horses of the Heartlanders then? I do not know much, but they do not seem to make good riders, and perhaps it is because their horses are not as fast and sturdy as ours or the pale-faces'. The Iron Men are fearsome and cruel in battle, but my peoples never feared them greatly - they could not catch us." A hint of pride was in Arslan's voice. Indeed, the Ayuub Tribe did not concern themselves much with the Legion, much like most the nomad peoples. Although a single tribe, even as mighty as the Ayuubs, who were the second largest tribe after the Barcas, could've never even hoped to beat the Legion in battle, the heavy footmen of the Imperials had no hope to catch a Ra Gada nomad tribe, more so in their own homeland, unless they employed treachery.

Giving his blade one last careful look, Arslan put it down, occupying himself for a moment with arranging his possesions in a way as compact as possible. Slowly, he unstraqed the Bretic canteen, eyeing it carefully as if it was suspected of treachery; a similar glance was given to the leather bag that was currently empty. He had no love for those items, for the nomad had no idea how reliable they were; his people were reclusive and suspicious of outsiders, and even simple items such as these had to earn his trust before they would be viewed with the same pride as those that were made in the tribe. Thus it was no surprise that the two only Bretic items in his posession were soon forgotten in favor of the wicker cuirass he unstrapped. The thing did not offer much protection, but it was certainly better than nothing, as he thought, placing it over his humble inventory.

"So," Arslan finally spoke again, satisfied with how his possessions were laid out. "You are headed for this town... Ree-thern..? To recieve your reward for the heads of the Bad Magi?" He looked around with some curiosity as he spoke, expecting to see heads or at least limbs of the slain foes. He was, after all, a hunter, and taking trophies from a particularly resistant beast was a means of showing respect for a worthy enemy in his thought, especially considering the trophy would most likely be always kept close to the hunter's person, since hanging a stuffed head on a wall wasn't an option for a people who constantly moved.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wind Keep

Reydin sat on a fallen tree as he listened to his lieutenant speak. "Sir," Aldras started. "We've got Evermore to our northeast, and Gauvadon southwest of us. Personally, sir," Aldras paused. Reydin didn't like when you used the word personally. It implied that you had a will other than his. He swallowed the lump in his throat and went on. "I think we should head toward Gauvadon. Their queen, or whatever they call her over there, has just died. It is vulnerable and should be an easy alliance."

"No, Aldras," Reydin contradicted his lieutenant. "Gauvadon is not one of our priorities. We will head for Evermore, and then I might consider visiting Gauvadon."

"Yes," Aldras reluctantly agreed. "I will tell the men to prepare to move toward Evermore." He turned and began to walk toward the camp.

"Good." Reydin stood up from the fallen tree and gathered his things. "Aldras," he said to his lieutenant, who had to turn back around to face him. "We leave in two hours. Anyone not ready will be left behind."

"Yes, sir."

Reydin liked it like this. It was much better than commanding an army; he had experienced his fair share of that. Commanding a small, thirty-man group was much more efficient and easy. They always had enough food and weapons, and they were always ready to go on time. And best of all, they worked for free. His men were quite the gullible bunch, flocking to his promises of power and riches like moths to a flame. He had told them no lies; he had told each and every one of them his plans. He just... hadn't told them everything. He just gave them the vaugue, general plot of what he was going to do. And they accepted it with every fiber of their being.

He returned to camp and found the rest of his possessions. He grabbed a small silver shortsword, put on his riding boots, and the rest of his gear. In one hour they would be off. Him, leading thirty moths to a faraway flame. And when they reached the flame, the moths would burn.

Edwinn Gastin, Gates of Farrun

Edwinn watched as the two guards had a silent exchange, and for once he thanked his vampiric abilities as his heightened senses picked up a few words, the most important one being "treachery". It hardly shook the Marshall, as Farrun had no real reason to trust them, and neutrality was indeed a dangerous position to put oneself in, and even more difficult a thing to hold on to.

And well it was true they did not support Elysana very well, they remained on her "side" for the time being. But Edwinn had a strange feeling that that time was running to an end...

He watched, not to surprised, as the gates were drawn open to reveal an oddly busy lane, with many people gathering around talking excitedly, as well as small groups of soldiers marching through the streets. It looks like a festival has just rolled through. the half-vampire thought. The Nordic guard began giving them instructions about where to go to find the Duke, as well as giving a small warning that they would be stripped of their weapons.

Edwinn merely nodded, expecting as much in these times. He turned back to address his men, thinking it best to not bring a score of soldiers into this town, especially with it under new management. Looking at a Knight behind him he said:

"Marcus, take the men, as well as all but three Knights and make camp somewhere away from the city." He turned to Gauvin, who listened patiently behind him. "You shall come with me lad, as I may need your advice soon enough."

The men split up, three Knights trotting over beside Edwinn while the rest took a few steps back. Edwinn lead the four men up to the gate, making sure his hood was down low before saying his thanks. Just as he reached the men a strong breeze from the sea whipped up and blew the hood off Edwinn's face. He immediately hissed in pain as the weak sunlight (but sunlight nonetheless) began burning his skin, sending little wisps of smoke up into the air. Ignoring the pain, he quickly turned his face away and brought the hood back up, gritting his teeth as the pain remained, and the smell of singed skin wafting into his nostrils.

His men observed it all in confusion, as none of them (except Gauvin) knew about Edwinn's condition, and Edwinn swore quietly at the pain before turning around again, pulling the hood as deep as it could go over his face.

"Thank you kind sirs." he muttered, trying to act as if nothing happened, though the smell of his burnt flesh was rather strong, even in the wind. He waited silently, trotting forwards slightly to see if the men would stop him from entering their city after the display before them.

Captain Secundus Laetonius Metilius, Legion Camp

The only Legion force present in High Rock, and here we are stationed outside a town near Wayrest. Less than two-thousand troops. Easily out numbered by even the militia of a single small town.
" You have been sent to High Rock to quell any rebellion, to keep the Bretons at peace. Remember that Secundus. " is the load of bull he had recieved from the Imperial City in reply to his last letter, requesting reinforcements, or withdrawal from High Rock.

Secundus looked over the miniature camp and his skeleton force. Military activity had increased in the area since the Nords and the Altmer began their invasion, and he feared they would soon be pushed out by the rulers of Gauvadon and Aleine.

We are likely to be massacred any day now. I have seen the Knights, I have seen the Lord's Army, we would never stand a chance. Legionairres were skilled fighters indeed, but no match when faced with such a large force, with so many of the highly trained Knights High Rock was famous for.

Sighing, the Captain paced the camps wooden walls, ever wary of Lord Francois.

" And not even a Battlemage in sight! "


Lord Francois Gautier, Aleine

His Knights knew it, the servants of his Manor knew it, and many of his soldiers and townspeople knew it. A resentment had been held against the Imperial force since its arrival, even though a small amount of the people had enlisted, but soon it would all be put to an end.

" Does the Army know of the attack? Will they be ready for Midnight? "

" Yes m'Lord. " Sir Jean, one of Francois' friends had been tasked with spreading word of the attack.

" And the Knights? "

" Sir Gaston is readying them now. "

Nodding his approval, Francois asked a final question. " Has my cousin arrived from his eastern castle? "

" Yes m'Lord. He arrived this morning through the Northern gate. "

" Very well. I expect to see the force assembled outside the gates by Eleven Thirty. You will be riding with me. "

In mere hours they would send the Legion bastards crawling back to Cyrodiil. And then we march for Norvulk.

Northpoint

Cadwallace and his fellow travelers, bunched together in front of Northpoint's imposing walls, waited patiently for the captain of the gate, wrinkling their noses slightly at the crowd of peasants flowing into and out of the city.

The captain arrived shortly; a hulking man likely of Nordic heritage, the captain easily dwarfed Cadwallace, who, like his father, was a rather small man. But far from being intimidating, the captain seemed a cheerful sort, and greeted them warmly. "You shall of course be allowed into our city, with open arms too! Tell me your business here, as well as your names, and I shall send a man ahead to inform the Lord of your coming."

"Of course," said Cadwallace, after giving the man a respectful nod. "I am Cadwallace d'Ardfert, son of Lord Brendan d'Ardfert of Sharnhelm. This," he said, indicating Livia with his right hand, "Is my sister Livia, and our escort is Charles du Roman, one of Sharnhelm's Knights of the Clouded Mirror." Cadwallace did not bother introducing the servants, of course ? they were inconsequential.

"We come seeking an audience with your Lord, to smooth over the remaining details still in question after last month's treaty between our cities. Also, my father has entrusted to me a letter for Lord de Guiralle. Our purpose is entirely peaceable. As you can see we pose no threat to your lord or your city."

Indeed, their party was hardly threatening. Though Cadwallace and Charles wore Sharnhelm-style cavalry sabres in their belts and the footman had a sort of wooden cudgel packed in his saddlebag, none of them wore mail and the ladies were unarmed.

As the orders were given out Tudor nodded slightly walking away and leaving Corsica alone with the Queen.


OOC: I'm sorry everyone, but this month i've had to deal with a very serious life issue and i'm just not finding the time or state of mind right now to post full length posts. I'll do my part to move things along for now and hopefully the issues will be resolved.

Camlorn

Beneath the pale walls of the castle, a crowd of listless peasantry jostled around, trying to get through the gate. Dour-faced watchmen stalked the barbican and crenelations, keen-eyed archers stood behind balistraria in the curtain wall and the ring of armourers in the gatehouse echoed down the halls. The approach of the Northpoint emissaries was swiftly noted. Alerted by a sure-footed courier, Abattarik - King Beric's court wizard and adviser - rode across town accompanied by a trio of spellswords, city nobles all, to accept and welcome the ambassadors from the chilly north.

The jackets of the spellswords made a light, crinkly sound in the mild wind. Abattarik was not clad in typical flowing robes either, but tight black pants, a white silk shirt and a leather jerkin. His long spurs jingled as he rode, and an intricately-carven stick was sheathed in a loop at his belt. The huddle of moustached wizard-warriors had long fingers covered in delicate rings and wrists that sang with the metallic ting of enchanted bangles. Their hands rested on the pommels of broadswords.

"Greetings, my lords of Northpoint. I am Abattarik and I speak with the king's voice. What is your business in the lands of Camlorn and Phrygias?" Making a thin smile, Abattarik pursed his lips, and his papery cheeks sunk further in, pulling taut his bone-yellow skin. His dark sunken eyes regarded the men with an inner fire.

The Gate Captain regarded each of the people that were introduced, adding a quick "M'lady", to the woman, Livia, as the boy, Cadwallace finished the introductions. The Captain looked over the lad, thinking he was roughly the same age as his Lord's son, Paurand.

He smiled and turned to one of the guards, snapping his fingers once, as the man rushed off, repeating the names in his head. The Captain turned back, the smile still on his face.

"You may enter our fair city now, if you wish." he said warmly, stepping aside with open arms. "Lord de Guiralle should be in the Castle, possibly in the Grand Hall. Just follow this street all the way to the Castle, and you will find it with no problem!" he said, and with that he hurried away to other business, leaving the group to enter.



Edgar held his men back from the gates a little, partly out of respect, but also to let the many peasant folk enter the gates on their daily business. Edgar was reminded of Northpoint a little in this way, and let himself fall into a bit of a trance as he watched the people, all with stories of their own as they went about their days.

His attention was drawn back when the sound of trotting horses and jingling trinkets cut through the raucous of the crowd, and Edgar turned his head to regard the men. They were dressed in black pants and fine white shirts, and he noticed they carried staffs (or what seemed like staffs) at their sides, all intricately carved, and their ringed fingers rested on fine looking broadswords at their hips. They all had well groomed mustaches and rode their horses with a certain sense of dignity and pride, much like Edgar and his Knights did.

These men were clearly important and high ranking in the castle, and that was proven an instant later as the lead man spoke, claiming he was the voice of the Lord here. He spoke to Edgar politely and formally, showing he was all business but not as to make them uncomfortable.

Edgar bowed his head as the man introduced himself, as did his Knights. "Greetings Abattarik, tongue of the King of Camlorn." he replied courteously. "I am Edgar Gaerwing, and these are my Knights of the Deep." he said proudly, waving his hand to the six Knights behind the Master.

"We come to your fair city with tidings of good-will and friendship, as well as offers for trade between our cities." he informed the man. He brought his horse a little closer, taking a quick glance around him then leaning his head in. "I also have more private words that I wish to tell your Lord, if he will have us." he said in an undertone, looking into the man's eye's.

Camlorn

Abattarik kept his smile and carefully looked at these Knights of the Deep, and their leader, Edgar Gaerwing. He made a strange gesture with his left hand, and the trio of spellswords drew their cloaks closer about themselves and their horses snickered impatiently. "Very well, Sir Gaerwing. If you will follow me through this crowd, we shall take you to King Beric, and find suitable lodgings for you and the Knights of the Deep, as men of high station. Keep close. While the townsfolk may seem languid and even boring, the Camlorners and Phrygians are a lively people unused to visitors from across land. Foreigners may be commonplace on the waterfront, but be careful, else you will see how uncommon our Bretic neighbours truly are."

Without taking notice of the Knights behind, the three spellswords kicked their horses into action, and with a moment of barely-hidden surprise, Abattarik reined his horse around and gestured wildly for Sir Edgar and his kith to follow. As they rode, the town seemed to pass in a blur. First they passed the tall brick, wood and stucco apartments and shops, all new, more modern even than some of Wayrest's buildings. The men were neatly dressed in avant-garde fashion... It seemed that the middle-class of Camlorn were years ahead of other cities in terms of personal wealth, except Anticlere and Wayrest herself. The rustic ports of the Sea of Ghosts could not match the speedy growth which Camlorn had been blessed with since the Warp in the West. Secondly, they passed the older, central districts where the buildings were no less impressive and even more distinguished from one another. Some were clearly Aldmeri in design while others spoke of the mead-halls and frozen villages of Hsaarik Head, Solstheim and Whiterun.

The centre of the city was the castle of Camlorn. Not a fortress in the traditional sense, Beric's halls were much different to any others. A sprawl of old timber buildings with low, shingled-roofs dominated the court which was surrounded by a tall pale curtain wall, studded at intervals by watchtowers. Somewhere out of the mass of wood and more wood, half a hundred narrow, pale towers rose into the sky, like Winter's skinny fingers reaching up into the sky. They rose and twisted, like Sadrith Mora made rock, with additional branches appearing here and there. Only a half-dozen L-plan castles rested amongst the wooden webs, but two score towers of varying heights, surprisingly able to maintain their own weight, stretched impossibly high into the clouds.

As the horses slowed and came to the gate which led to Beric's hold, Abattarik pointed up at the towers that stood over them as if they were ants looking up with anxiety at a bundle of pale mushrooms high above the stinking forest floor. "There is Lord Beric's castle. It was once an Aldmeri fortress in the Merethic. Nords conquered it and built this pile of wooden halls and the walls around. Beyond this strangely composed work of architecture, the city is largely the result of recent times."

One of the spellswords dismounted with a click-clack of his boots and disappeared through a nearby postern door, somewhere to the left. The strange patchwork of old buildings was a real, visual puzzle that men had built over centuries. He returned almost immediately. "Lords, if you will enter the hall, His Grace King Beric will grant you audience in this nearby chamber. His son, His Lordship Blaise, has recently returned from ventures in the city and will meet you as well."

Abattarik looked around, nodded at Sir Edgar and smiled. "If you will follow me... Let's go see the King..." The court wizard, a thin, even underfed character, led the way in his tightly tailored garb and opened the door to the chamber.

Wayrest

Emmen bowed robotically, not an inch higher- or lower- than courtesy demanded. He gazed at his Queen's daughter; she too, was beautiful, though not yet in full-bloom, to his older eyes. He could imagine she would break many hearts in her time, as did her mother- and perhaps she had already begun.

Straightening, he said fluidly, not quite banishing the dead sound from his voice, "Her Majesty the Queen desires your company, Highness. She wishes to meet you in her royal chambers. She is just concluding her discussion with others." He bowed again. "If you will excuse me, your Highness, I have been bid other tasks- though none so pleasurable as addressing your luminous self." Though the words were perfectly executed, the emotions that should have accompanied them, the expressions, remained missing; Emmen's face was soulless.

He turned and left; not waiting to be dismissed as courtesy required, but then, Emmen was Elysana's servant, not Evelyn's, and unlike his lover he did not enjoy diplomacy.

He rounded the corner and grabbed a passing servant roughly by the arm, causing him to jump in surprise. "A summons," he said in his dead voice. "For one Samuel Ross. He should be in the city. Have him wait outside the royal chambers. The Queen requires it; get to it."

The servant scampered off to find Samuel Ross.

----------------------

Elysana watched Tudor leave, her eyes on his back, her thoughts impossible to read from her face. When at last, he was gone, she returned her gaze to Corsica.

"Let me speak plainly to you, Corsica," she said, and if Corsica was wise she would recognise that this was another moment to remember that Elysana the woman and Elysana the Queen were not really separate people. "And you to me. Tudor is a great man to have in my service. He is a good leader, he has a great tactical mind, and he is skillful at gaining the loyalty of his men."

She watched Corsica carefully. "...and, unless I am much mistaken, my daughter." Her dark eyes, set within such a beautiful face, were hard. "Corsica, I realise you have something of a history with Tudor, as his instructor. I don't know if you ever had anything more; the man has a blasted habit for taking all women who've so much as been in the same room as him to bed. My dilemma is this; Evelyn is new to all this. She is not yet experienced enough to understand the difference between lust and love. Tudor, however, is. His reputation suggests that he is not as smitten with her as she might be with him. Having this kind of power over the throne is unnacceptible, but this is not all."

"Tudor's popularity is a two edged sword- one the one side, it is beneficial to my kingdom. But the other side could easily cut me back. I worry, Corsica, that Tudor may gain more popularity than my rule can handle. That combined with power of Evelyn... Corsica, Tudor is a great Marshall, do not mistake me. But he would make a very poor monarch."

She eyed Corsica, her gaze weighing. "I would ask you to watch him, but in secret. His actions, his lovers, and any time spent with Evelyn. This is perhaps the most challenging task I have asked of anyone, to watch someone who knows who you are, to remain hidden." She turned her head, looking away from Corsica. "If for personal reasons, you choose not to accept this task, I understand. I am giving you a choice in this, Corsica."

And the choice is; Tudor, or me.

If the threat from Tudor turned out to be false, then all would be well, and she could have her marshall without fear. But I am a Queen, dammit! And everyone around me is a threat to my rule until given proof otherwise. Corsica would know, that Elysana had survived too many usurpers, traitors and plots not to be so careful.

"Speak, Corsica, for I would know your mind on this."

OOC: If someone (Immortal?) is representing the Dominion, Veruise is in their hands.