Stay

[Brian]

Mirallia considers this for a moment, then agrees, hesitantly.  "I wouldn't want to impinge on his campaign against the Dreadmarch, but I suppose this is far more dangerous than it's been before, and we've no time for games.

"This one really will be a struggle."  Nodding to herself, and having made up her mind, she checks herself to make sure her hair is presentable, then asks, "Ah, Bjorn ... if ... I may ... do you still have my ring?  I ... may need it for what is to come."

[Bjorn]

Bjorn blinks, and then comprehends.  "Ah.  I... think I do.  One second."  As he roots in his pack to retrieve it, he asks, over his shoulder, "What exactly do you mean by, 'this one'?"  Standing, he unties the handkerchief from the ring and passes it to Mirallia.

[Brian]

"It's as Radagast said -- for the last several marches ... no one took them as seriously as should be warranted.  For something that the entire fate of the world hangs in the balance on, you would expect everyone to be concerned.  But the truth of the matter is that south of the heartlands, in the rice kingdoms, many don't even know about what we will be doing here in the weeks to come.

"If they do know, it is because the Archonae move about, and share some of what their oracle has told them.  But to them, it is much like a dream, or a fable.  Something that they are told of which is not really true, and even if it is, does not matter."  She shakes her head.

In a much quieter voice, she adds, "Something they can freely throw an unwanted daughter to, believing that no ill will come of it."

Raising her head, and taking the ring, she speaks in a more conversational tone.  "And perhaps now, I realize that all other things aside, to atone for my sin, I must fight and see that the worst does not come to pass."  She nods, then slips the ring on.

It's her size, you realize, and would never have fit on you.  "This is a symbol of my birthright," she explains, eyeing it, as if she had forgotten how to wear it.  "All of that is cast aside when a priestess joins Hamar, and it would be ... shameful for her to keep it afterwards.  Perhaps it would be even more shameful to give it as a token of affection, breaking more of those rules in the process.

"And perhaps the greatest shame is in asking for it back afterwards," she says, frowning.  "But the clergy has no place in the discussion of tactics and battle.  Nobility does, and I will use what I have to fight for my best.

"If you can come from a world where you've never learned things that our children know, and say over and over that the right thing is to stop the Dreadmarch, then I'm a great fool than you could ever aspire to be for not seeing it myself."

With a smile, she plants a kiss on your cheek, and then whirls towards the door.  "Lord Kevin will not be expecting us, so we must be patient."

[Bjorn]

Bjorn blinks, startled, and then grins.  "One second, actually."

Grabbing his pack, he slips into the bathroom.  When he returns, he is no longer wearing his ordinary clothes, but once again the plate armour.  "There.  Lord Kevin might not be charitably inclined towards a priestess and her vassal."  Tugging at his left gauntlet, to adjust it comfortably, he says, with a grim humour, "A noblewoman backed by a soldier of Hamar is a different story entirely, I'll bet.  Too bad I don't have the ceremonial armour anymore -- but then, looking dangerous is probably more effective than looking pretty."  He grins ferally, and then opens the door, bowing low.  "If you are ready, m'Lady?"

[Brian]

She smirks, and you're off, wandering through the maze-like interior of the keep.  Either she knows where she's going, or she's a good bluffer -- either way, you eventually find yourself climbing a few sets of stairs, and stopping before a massive double-door in an indoor halway, guarded by a pair of bored-looking men in good-quality plate-mail.

They eye you speculatively, not trusting the sword, but after a moment, one of them raps on the door.  A call you can't make out echoes from inside, and then the doors swing open slowly.  You're shown through an ante-chamber by a well-dressed servant, and then you're in a room that has to mimic the proportions of the feasting-hall downstairs.  One might wonder, idly, about the architectural feasibilty of this construction, what with the two large towers that are supposed to be overhead, but apparently, no one else lets little details like this bother them.

Columns line this room at irregular intervals, supporting the ceiling overhead, and allowing room for iron rings bearing torches to illuminate the area.  They are, at this moment, unlit, however.

The room runs the length of the keep, and you know this because the far wall has windows -- warped, wavery, bubbled glass (you can tell that from this far away) -- but glass none-the-less.  Lord Kevin, no longer in armor, and his right-hand man, still in armor, are huddled over a huge desk basking in the sunlight that permits itself to shine over the horizon and into the room.  Radagast reclines in a chair a short distance away, puffing on his pipe and staring at nothing in particular.  There's no sign of his elf-friend, or Liandral, though.

Lord Kevin looks up as Mirallia draws near, stopping a handful of paces from the desk.  "Ah!" he says, rising from his chair.  "It is good to see you again, Madame Mirallia.  I hope you've rested from your ordeal?"

"I have, Lord Kevin," she says, bowing to him.

"What can I help you with, then?" the man asks, turning to stare at his desk contemplatively.  From where you stand, you can see it is a map, covered with odd trinkets and tokens -- mostly coins or blocks -- that probably represent soldiers on a battlefield.  The militant man in plate says nothing, eyeing you speculatively.

"I wish to offer what aid I can in the defenses of Stormwall Keep," she says, glancing sidelong at Radagast, who has roused himself from his glazed contemplation of the cieling.

"Well, that's good," Lord Kevin muses.  "We can use more help, assuredly, but your hands will be full at the ceremony.  And after that, well, we can always use assistance with the wounded."

"There's ... possibly more," Mirallia says slowly, uncertain of how to proceed.

"What else is there?" Lord Kevin asks, leaning one elbow on the table and frowning at his map.

Radagast nods curiously, and the armored man continues staring straight at you.

[Bjorn]

By ingrained habit, Bjorn tries to conceal the overt signs of his martial arts skill.  Now, though, he drops that pretense.  He straightens his back, letting his arms and shoulders hang loose, and his eyes take on an empty, half-lidded look.

"Madam Mirallia," he states, quietly and calmly, "is the hand of Hamar in this place.  His wrath for the Dreadmarch is holy, and it is her role to make His will be known, and to carry out His commands.

"And I am a soldier of Hamar.  By His will, war is my beginning and my end."  His face rests impassive as he pronounces that.  "A sword sheathed is a sword wasted."

[Brian]

"Well put," the armored man says dryly, sizing you up as though when it came time for him to chew you up and spit you out, you'd have a fraction more gristle on you than most others.  "Speaking of sheathed swords, there is something ... that we'd like to discuss, as long as you're volunteering."

Radagast frowns, but nods, and Lord Kevin leans back in his chair.  It's pretty big, padded in hides.  Honestly, you're not sure if it's fit for a king, but Lord Kevin seems to think it's pretty dandy.

"I take it that unlikely coincidences have plagued your preparations, as well?" Mirallia finally hazards.

The armored man scowls, and Kevin nods, half-hiding a smile.  "Indeed," the lord finally says.  "We've invited warriors of renown from afar to test their mettle, and to prepare for the worst.  And lorekeepers, of course.

"This is a battle which I don't intend to underestimate, even if it's so much of a joking rout that it could be won by children with sticks.  My ancestors have made mistakes, which I like to think I've learned from.

"Perhaps in our memories, what has truly happened has become obfuscated behind stories of it not really being that bad ... but preparing for the worst, I've almost gotten everything I've expected.

"I sent out letters, and messengers, to several renowned figures, as I've said before.  Gatemaster Eske, for example.  Of course, he's gone, and no one knows where.  Peculiar.

"But too, the soldiers, the spearmen, the archers ... all those I would single out as those worthy of distinction ... almost all of them have fallen.  Oh, certainly, four of those who I'd wanted here are here ... now.  I have the legendary King of the Wolves, a Storm-rider of true renown and ferocity!  ... but of late, he is given to drink, and has lost the respect of his people.

"The great Ekim Boneforge, who is said to be one of the oldest Dwarves still walking the earth, his memory reaching back to the first Dreadmarch, and back still, to when Man fought God on the field before this keep.  ...but he does not fight, because he has no care to temper those he strikes into better weapons to be used against him.  There is some truth to the legend that those who live through a blow from a Dwarven hammer rise stronger than they fell.  Perhaps this is for the best.

"Only one is here as he should be.  Dorian Shivershaft, the archer.  And I suspect the reason he is here, is because he came immediately, and set about reviewing the fortifications nearly ten years ago, and hasn't left since.  I have not shared my suspicion that he narrowly avoided being assasinated ... but I think he is aware anyway."

Frowning pensively, he turns to look directly at you.  "That is three," he adds.

[Bjorn]

Bjorn stares back, impassively.

[Brian]

Lord Kevin frowns pensively after a moment, looking between you and the lady.  Finally, he says, "The fourth was found ... much later.  Breke the Bladestorm ... he was standing in the field in the Heartlands.  His retainers all slain, and him with nothing to do.

"My men tried to help him when they encountered him, on their way to the keep, but he ignored them, only checking to make sure that the chains around his wrists were secured.  A chained man ... and he the only survivor of a gruesome battle?  And in the heartlands, no less.

"Mm.  We thought this odd.  He didn't answer our questions, except to say, at length, that he did not see the attackers.  But he slew them.

"One wonders how this is possible, but he doesn't speak of these things.  Or much of anything at all, really.  He spends all his time in contemplation.  Apparently there is a madness within him ... and it is not that he is ... or was ... his own man.  It was that he went where his retainers led, and did as they bade."

The armored man finally speaks.  "It seems to me, that we need someone to take up that task of governing Breke's chains, if he's to fight for us," he says, his voice deep and rough, likely from years of shouting orders.  "None of our men are willing to do this ... they give up after a day of trying.

"But if, somehow, someone were to take responsibility, and see that Breke were restored to the legendary swordsman he is said to be, then we'd have enough less worry on our table that we could allow another voice to enter our planning sessions.

"Otherwise, we've much to do, and little time to do it."

Mirallia frowns, a very subtle, tight frown, and eyes you out of the corner of her eyes.

[Bjorn]

"Why do the keepers give up, Sir?" Bjorn asks, quietly, without shifting.

[Brian]

"I've heard it said that Breke is somewhat difficult to get along with," the armored man says, shrugging.  "And who would trade the glory of wielding a blade for leading a legend around on a chain?"

[Bjorn]

"I am not a healer," Bjorn says.  "But I am a soldier, and in this place, I follow the orders of Sir Kevin and Madame Mirallia."

Inwardly, he roils with a combination of frustration and curiousity.  Ridiculous.  Wars don't get won by single heroes, especially ones that everyone distrusts.  On the other hand... he survived an assassination attempt.  That may make him the best lead yet.

[Brian]

"Hmm," the armored man grunts.  "If you can manage Breke, then well allow Lady Mirallia to participate in the planning."

[Bjorn]

Bjorn looks at Mirallia, a questioning look to his eyes.

[Brian]

"Well," Mirallia says slowly, "if that's the case, Bjorn, do you think you're up to that task?"