"Loyalty is the most valuable resource to any ruler, while simultaneously being the most tenuous. One wrong decision can shatter loyalties that took years, decades, even generations to acquire. It is for this very reason, that a ruler must never forget that in all they command, in all they say and do, they are a servant to those who have pledged their fealty first." - A message from Prince Jean Desramaux to his sons and nephews before pledging the eradication of House Pelariaux to his army at the siege camp of Pelaresse.

Prince Louis Desramaux road at the front of a very long and surprisingly well equipped force of some 10,000 soldiers. 7,000 of them were standard levy: spearmen with a shield, a hatchet, gambeson adorned with the colors of House Heerma - the Tower of Black over gyronny of eight forest green and black. The remaining 3,000 were split amongst an assortment of 2,000 foot-knights, each equipment with a different style of armor, ranging from plated tabards to those lucky enough to have some form of leather over their shoulders; but, they all had at the very least some amount of mail, a shield, and an axe. Not just any axe, of course, but a great axe. Possible of being wielded with one hand at the price of the might behind it, save to grip it at the base of the axes head to smack your enemies with - more of a blunt instrument than that for carving; when wielded with two hands there was that "great" amount of strength and reach that gave these weapon's their name. It has even been said that they were capable of even penetrating plate armor on the first strike - this was something Louis doubted greatly, chocking it up to propaganda spread by the wielders of these weapons, though their power was still to be admired. This did, however, raise the question of, why did these knights bother with shields at all when their main armament was at its most powerful when two-handed? The answer to that is a simple one: it protects their back. Known as a pavise, despite being smaller than one wielded by crossbowers, starting at the base of the neck where it touches the collar bone and stretching all the way down to the middle of their thigh, covering them from arm to arm. Being as equally difficult to wield with one hand as their axes, the foot knights of Heerma and Alloopen have adapted to strapping these massive shields to their backs. The downside to this, so Louis would suppose, was the inherent blind spot this created as well as limiting their mobility. Surely they could achieve an upward or downward swing at full scale, but pulling back at the side with the twist of their hips was clearly limited by these shields, weakening their swings and sacrificing their offense for defense. The young prince thought to further question the practice, but thought not to, for he would have to command these troops after all, and his father had taught him the importance of expelling doubts from ones mind in such situations.

The remaining 1,000 were all of those necessary to keep everything for an army in motion - the camp followers. They carried food, equipment, and tents, drove the pack animals, and in a pinch would join the infantry. Notably missing from this army was the newly crowned duke himself - the Duke Hendrik Heerma, son of the late Duchess Fien Heerma and the new Duke van Heerzijl. Claiming to still be in mourning over the death of his mother, while simultaneously recognizing the hand which Louis' father had in her death, he was reluctant to sign a formal treaty of alliance. Somehow, though, the young prince convinced him. Louis could not remember exactly how the conversation went, the whole encounter an anxious blur, but he knew he had remembered the Kol. Yes, Louis thought during their meeting, these Giantkin must be a thorn in the young duke's side. And so, the offer was made accordingly. Feeling something he had never felt before, his chest puffed out, a small grin never leaving his face, the young prince was able to hold his head high while he marched back to his father. He hoped this feeling would last. It was a good feeling, and Louis could not recall the last time he had felt something like it.

They were roughly halfway to Lutherloo, about to reach the Northern Road after traveling for eight days with the troops before another short march east to Niljden, the young prince was more than ready to finally be amongst civilization and rest his head upon a feathered pillow. Perhaps his father would congratulate him upon his return. Having left for Heerzijl with his father's initial offer, but nothing more than that, forcing the young prince to deal with the real negotiating - his first real trial as a prince, an official of the state. Of course, Prince Louis had been a prince his entire life, being the nephew to the king, though, he never had much in the way of duties; at least, none that his father did not take over. Looking back at the row of soldiers marching behind him, Louis took note of their formations. Eight persons across, twelve-hundred-fifty deep, they encompassed the entire road. Any that needed to pass, though the number had been few, only three in the passed eight days, were forced to veer around and attempt to reach what must have appeared as a never ending line of armed bodies. It was truly a sight to be seen, the largest force the young prince had ever seen, and there he road at the helm. Commanding it! They were his and his alone. He could finally find the word to describe how he felt, something that he had genuinely never known before. Pride. Prince Louis Desramaux, heir to the Desramaux Dynasty, heir to his father's throne, felt pride.

His day-dream was snatched away from his thoughts as his ears were suddenly met with what could only be the beating of wings. Woosh. Woosh. Glancing around, Louis saw no birds above him, nothing could be seen following him. A chill ran through his spine as he finally gazed upon the source. High in the sky, approaching from the east, were eagles - giant eagles. Easily the size of a trebuchet, there were possibly a dozen, soaring towards the marching columns. Will they swoop down? Perhaps they were just traveling, they were native to the area after all, Louis thought. Or were they domesticated? The young prince did not know. He hoped desperately that they were wild. His heart began to race as he turned round and blew on his horn. Lines broke into formation, dropping their packs as there became shields and spears in hand. Fumbling his words he looked around.

"Form-mmm, for-uh-uh. Sp-sp-spe. Shield wall! Shield wall! Form a shield wall!" Louis sputtered out. As the soldiers under his command began to take formation, it dawned on the young prince that he did not know what he had just ordered them to do. Seeing it before him it made sense - a wall made of shields. But he had never ordered formations before, thinking on his lessons and experience, he realized he had never drawn his sword either outside of the practice field. Immediately, his hands clammed up, as beads of sweat began to drip from his forehead and into his eyes. Breathing heavily, he glanced from his saddle at those who now fought and lived by his command.

"Hold!" he shouted, as the caw of the giant eagles rung out, piercing the eardrums of all who could hear it. Clasping his hands over his ears, Louis looked down and clenched his eyes shut. By the time he looked back up, all that came into his field of view was carnage. A dozen giant eagles swooped down and began grabbing soldiers by their talons, ripping them to pieces and tossing those not fortunate enough to receive a quick death high through the air, high enough that they might plummet to their deaths, screams of fear being all that they could do while they fell towards their inevitable fate. Hovering above the lines, a few of the the eagles flapped their wings heavily, sending tornadoes through Louis' ranks breaking formations, allowing the native Giantkin, the Kol, who road upon the backs of these Fel beasts to jump down and take them by surprise. It was raid, nothing more, nothing less, and yet, it felt like a battle. It felt like this was it.

Shaking, the young prince gripped the hilt of his blade and, after a failed first attempt, unsheathed his blade. Holding his horses reins tightly, he continued to watch the fray before him. It was then he realized he was only wearing his gambeson, having left his chainmail and brigantine with the camp followers not thinking he would need it. The soldiers screamed, his soldiers screamed, they thrust their spears - they have brought down an eagle! That sensation prior unknown to this day came raising through his heart once again. They can be killed! Of course they can be killed, anything can be killed. Louis froze his gaze upon the felled creature. Even I can be killed. Fear began once again to takeover. He blinked, a vain attempt to keep the sweat from his eyes. With his left hand he wiped and wiped and wiped. By the time he finally had a clear picture, they were before him scattered, running in all directions. It became instantly clear what he had to do. Digging his heels into the back of his horse, the young prince road due north into the columns.

"Regroup! Regroup!" he shouted, swinging his sword wildly above his head.

"Regroup! Regroup! Spears out! If they hover, throw them!" And thus his command was followed - by those who could hear him through the sounds of calamity. Initially this was very few, but when more could hear the screech of the eagle as it fluttered down and watched as spear point after spear point pierced the belly of the beast, bringing down the feathered monstrosity. As it let one final croak, as the Kol under its back attempted to climb back out only to be met with their own spear points to their face, bellies, and whatever else the soldiers could make contact with. It was then that the columns began to regroup. Perhaps they could win this day, perhaps they could win out against this ambush by the Kol.

Why were they doing this? Prince Louis wondered. Why are they attacking us? We have no qualms with them. 

"The Desramaux have no qualms with you!" he shouted, though it did not seem to matter. The Kol fought with ferocity never seen by the young prince before. For every one Kol that fell, five of his soldiers went. For every eagle - he did not want to count.

Frantically, from atop his horse, the young prince saw rushing at him a warrior wielding two axes. His heart beat rapidly, sweat no longer dripping from his pores as dehydration set in. A dry throat attempted to swallow. He raised his sword, but did not know what to do with it. It was shortly there after that he could hear the cries of his horse, the two axe heads buried into its throat, followed by its collapsing with him on top. Louis just managed to roll off, keeping his legs from being crushed but losing his sword in the process. Looking all around, breath heavy, rapid, searching for an escape. He locked eyes with the Kol warrior, who grunted deeply. Standing at eight feet tall, the giantkin leapt over the horses corpse, and then collapsed, a great axe having been buried into its back. The knight who had done so, was a middle-aged woman wearing a chain hauberk over gambeson the color of forest green with a small orange leaf - a maple. He opened his mouth to thank her, but before he could, a talon pierced through her belly, gripped her with all of its might and flew away. Louis watched it carry her only ten yards away and then drop her from triple the height. He could hear her screams of descent, until she screamed no longer. A wave of exhaustion rushed over the young prince. Falling to his knees, Louis collapsed, and the world went dark around him.

The gates to Niljden swung wide open, with the welcoming committee now standing perplexed. Rather than a grand entrance, on horseback, with legions behind him, Prince Louis Desramaux stumbled his way through the entrance to the city, feeble force in toe. The Duchess Zelderloo cocked her head to the right as she inspected the young man, the boy, that was all he was after all. It was no fault of his own, of course, the boy was raised poorly by his father, and this was the result. Before them all was no man sent off to fight; not a soldier, tactician or ruler. Just a boy, who could never do anything right. Hekket blinked suddenly as a shock threatened her understanding of reality. At first she thought her eyes had deceived her but - no, they were correct, his sword was missing. He had a horse when he left too. What happened to this poor boy? The duchess glanced to her ally, only to see King Thierry stoic as usual; no emotions shown to the situation - that would wait until the privacy of the parlor.

"Son." Thierry said, tone controlled to convey a relaxed emotion.

"F-f-father." Louis stammered, struggling for a moment to erect himself only so he might bring himself low, bowing to his father. Such trained submission.

"I see these are the soldiers from the Duke Heerzijl." Thierry spoke after a moments pause, the disheveled look of his son most likely took up much of his thought capacity.

"Yes. This is - uh, um... Those who - who... who made it." Hekket noted the strain in the young boy's neck as he attempted not to bring his attention to the ground.

"I had not realized the journey was so perilous. I would have ventured it myself had I known."

"No father I-I, it was not... until the return." Thierry gave Louis a beat before inquiring further.

"What happened?" Hekket now watched the boy shuffle his feet, his neck giving way to the heads desire to look down. Does he think he will find his answers there? In the dirt? Another trained response I see - one driven by fear instead of obedience. The old duchess could sense the answer was there in the dirt, staring violently back at the boy prince who did all that was within his little morsel of power to delay his father's rage and disappointment.

"Well, um... we-we, we were attacked. On the road." King Thierry's façade faded into concern but was quickly covered by the new guise of alertness.

"You were attacked on the road? By whom?" Louis continued to delay the inevitable, his eyes darting around from cobblestone to cobblestone, praying the gods will provide a better answer or distraction.

"The Kol."

"The Kol?" The frustration in the old king's voice gave way slightly.

"Yes, they are giantkin from - "

"I know who they are!" The old king paused then, taking the old duchess by surprise. Was he not going to berate his son at his poor defensive abilities? No, he seemed to be swallowing his anger, as he now adjusted his gaze to Hekket.

"You told me your son had dealt with them." Narrowing her eyes, the duchess noted to allowance of a biting tone in the old king's voice towards her.

"I told you he had talked to them, and that negotiations - failed." Calmness in her voice had the desired effect of irking the old king.

"You did not tell me they were hostile to us."

"I did not know." A coy smile crossed Thierry's face, making the duchess surprisingly uncomfortable.

"Well. Apparently, they are." Hekket returned the smile.

"Yes, apparently. My how clever you are, King Thierry. How very clever and observant you are. Truly a master in perception - "

"Quiet woman."

"You do not silence the Duchess Zelderloo." Hekket adjusted nothing about her posture, but her eyes were permitted to glow with the fire which burned behind them. Thierry and she maintained their eye contact for what felt like minutes but was likely to have been no longer than five seconds; each of them attempting to break the other. When it became clear that they were at a stand still, but that her point had been made clear enough, the duchess spoke again.

"Now, to save your own dignity, and because I am a nice, caring woman after all; shall we retire to our hosts estate?" No words were spoken to the duchess by the old king, but his turning of his attention away from her signaled his acquiescence.

"Bring the soldiers in! Give them food, wine, and a bed." Hekket spoke this to one of her attendants, a knight clad in a gambeson the colors of House Zelderloo with splint vambraces and greaves. Bowing, the knight left to carry out her orders. Ohhh... that reminds me. I need a new play thing. She thought to herself, only just now realizing how long it had been since she lost Nijls to the assassination, or rather attempt. She had overestimated his abilities and convictions, having learned through her regular channels that he had betrayed her name quickly. Not that it mattered; once the attempt had begun, she knew there was no hope of keeping her name away from the conspiracy, battles commencing immediately. It was the principle of the matter - they shared a bed, dined together, gave the other one company and pleasure, and he broke instantly. But with all of this fighting, conniving and conspiring, she has hardly been left with enough time to herself; and it was in that moment, when that mustachioed knight, with a chiseled chin, and young brown eyes so readily saluted and obeyed her that she remembered her human desires and needs. The Duchess Hekket Zelderloo needed someone new to keep her company and fill the role long abandoned by her late husband. This would still have to wait, though, as the petulant king and his young child needed tending to.

The three conspirators adjourned into the parlor as they were wanton to do. Louis sat closest to the hearth, which had not been lit given how wonderfully warm that passed few days had been. Niljden did enjoy such a wonderful summer season. Dirk-Jan was over by the bar sipping wine, emerald she believed but she never did look, nor did she care. Of course, she was nursing her second glass of amethyst - second of the day that is. Thierry stood leaning up against the mantle, pipe smoking in hand.

"Start from the beginning, son." There was a strange tenderness in his voice, one the old duchess had never seen before, though the king did keep his gaze fixated on the empty hearth, puffing from his pipe here and again. While the length of time in which the two had known each other had been no longer than the life of the conspiracy, King Thierry had shown himself to be nothing more than stubborn, obstinate, cold, and without remorse. But, now, even to his son, looking over to the young prince, she duchess noted how he too was surprised by the tone set by the old king. Louis seemed as if he perked up, more prepared to answer.

"Um... we were - the negotiations with the Duke Heerzijl were successful, father. He had promised to us a force of ten-thousand. Eight-thousand, uh - infantry, one thousand of which would be pack drivers, and uh-uh camp followers, and two-thousand knights. Foot knights. And their retinues. And then - and then... Well, five-hundred knights, and their retinues."

"I see, and?" Thierry did not look away from the hearth.

"We were marching back home and - uh, we were perhaps a mile from reaching the north road when - " Louis paused for a moment, the memory bringing him back to those moments on the road. The duchess noted how his eyes seemed to stare out into eternity.

"Giant eagles flew in from the East. I scrambled, I-I-I did all I could t-to muster, m-m-muster everyone together." Another pause, this one longer. None in the room moved to interrupt the boys thoughts.

"We fought bravely, for a while."

"And then what happened?" Thierry took a long puff from his pipe, held it a moment, and then released as his son continued to speak.

"W-well, we... we eventually beat, beat them off." The hesitation and lack of details revealed something obvious to the old duchess. He's lying. Or at least, he speaks about something he does not fully understand. A guess?

"What happened to your sword, young prince?" The duchess veered her eyes to the boy, goblet and cool liquid touching her lips.

"Yes, I was wondering the same thing." This time, Thierry permitted a glance to his son.

"I-I. My horse was killed. I was sent flying. I lost it."

"What did you use to fight after that?" Despite no change in the old king's tone, the prince adjusted back into his state of fear at this question, the desire not to answer overwhelming him. He broke through that desire.

"Nothing." He spoke so matter of factly. This grabbed Thierry's attention fully, taking him from his casual lean against the mantle into a more rigid state that was more natural to him.

"Nothing? What? You mean to tell me you fought giantkin and giant eagles with your bare hands?" A small chuckle broke through at the end of that question, his amusement breaking through.

"No! No, father, I... I lost consciousness." Thierry's smile vanished once more, that unfamiliar look of concern returning to his face.

"What?"

"I-I lost consciousness. I-I-I. I collapsed, soon after that. I was then awoken to the soldiers of Heerzijl ensuring I was still alive." The old duchess looked to her ally for rage, anger, or at least a vain attempt to conceal such emotions. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw no shift from the old king's look of concern.

"I see." the Duchess Zelderloo now did all she could to read these words. So few, possibly so cutting, that emitted from the old king's mouth. She could find no meaning though, if there even was one. Perhaps it was just that, he understood. He understood what his son had told him.

"I am sorry, father. I... I have failed you." King Thierry sighed deeply.

"I wish that were the case." Louis looked up with great alertness, his right eyebrow raised high.

"What?"

"I said, I wish that were the case. But, you did not fail me, son. I failed you. I sent you unprepared to gather an army. You had never commanded an army before." King Thierry allowed these words to set in; perhaps, to the duchess' surmising, to buy him the time necessary to finish muster the will to finish his thought. "It was a fools errand. I... well I am just glad - I am just glad you are alive. Swords are replaceable." Stunned silence encompassed the room, Duchess Hekket could hear Dirk-Jan uncork another bottle of emerald wine, the sound of pouring was all the permeated the room.

"Right." Was all that Louis said in response, his eyes wide.

"Your chambers are still prepared for you. They are here, untouched. Why do you not return there and get some rest. I am sure your body would thank you for the sleep from a real bed." A small smile came to the boy's face.

"Yes, um. Thank you, father. Thank you." The three conspirators watched as the young prince swiftly left, far too eager for a good night's sleep.

"I must say, Thierry. I am surprised at you." Hekket curled her lips into a grin as she spoke.

"Why? For not reprimanding my failure of a son?"

"Well, to be frank, yes."

"Where would be the point in that? Besides, what I said was true. I failed him." The old king puffed from his pipe before scowling, speaking more swiftly as he exhaled now. "No I did not, I failed myself. I never should have sent him out there. It was a fools errand, I should have gone myself, I should have sent myself! I would have gotten twenty-thousand."

"I do not mean to sound pessimistic, King Thierry. But, I do not know that the Duke Heerzijl has twenty-thousand soldiers to lend. It is not very populous out there. I am surprised he mustered ten."

"I expected maybe four." Duke Dirk-Jan added to the duchess' words. "You do realize that makes this an even larger failure?"

"Yes, I do. We have five-thousand fighting soldiers from the Duke Heerzijl. A drop in the water." Thierry turned himself now to face out to the room, both conspirators squarely in his field of view.

"But, it is still five-thousand spears we did not have before." Hekket said.

"I suppose you are right with that observation."

"Of course I am right."

"So what is next?" The duchess sipped from her glass, nearly empty, much to her grave realization.

"Have you received word from your son?" Thierry inquired.

"Yes, Diependam has been sufficiently destroyed. I am not entirely certain that this was the best course of action, but it was the course my son followed."

"And there is not exactly any way to go back on this, now is there." Dirk-Jan interjected. Hekket glanced to the young duke, burning a hole with her eyes, and then returning to her thought.

"So, he shall make his way north, collecting soldiers along his way to meet us here. By all accounts, we should expect him within a month. Dirk-Jan, how goes your recruitment process?"

"Wonderful, just wonderful. My people are more than happy to give up more and more of their family members to a cause in which they are less and less certain of."

"I do always appreciate your candor and belief in our cause." Thierry spoke to the duke in a way that openly showed his failure to conceal his sarcasm. Dirk-Jan laughed, sipped from his goblet, and spoke with a smile.

"Just promise me, one thing, King Thierry. Never send your son at the helm of a force again."

"I will send my son wherever I wish. We have a month. That is plenty of time to learn strategies, tactics."

"And, pray tell, who will be his teacher?" Dirk-Jan's smile continued, proudly displayed upon his face.

"Me, of course." Hekket permitted a smirk to clime up her face as Thierry said this, turning to face the young duke so that they might both share in this moment of amusement at the old king's expense.

"What?" Thierry did not hide his agitation.

"How much fighting have you seen?" Duke Dirk-Jan asked.

"Some."

"Some? What is some?"

"Bandits, here and there. I-I commanded a small cavalry force. We made our rounds about the country side, dispatching bandits, marauders, and the like." The Duchess Zelderloo could almost see the old king's skin crawling with anger as the mocking nature of his ally's smirks penetrated his veneer of confidence. "Well it is not like either of you have much experience!"

"No, I do not, personally, but, Dirk-Jan?"

"I have a little bit of experience, yes. Fighting draconians far to the north. They will often lead raids south. I have actually fought alongside the former Duchess Heerzijl. She was a fighter, of course, a brilliant tactician, with soldiers that were superb - despite being few and far between. This did lead to my being sent to her aid, of course."

"Why of course?" Thierry asked.

"Because my father did not take the threat seriously and thought it prudent not to send my brother - the heir. So I went. This was... roughly a decade ago? We were successful. Though, they were more guerilla style tactics; not much by way of pitched battles. But, still. Something I could teach by experience. Give me some books, and your son, and when the month is up I might allow him to be put into command - "

"You will not allow me anything."

"Until you fight with soldiers that wear your banner, as yes I mean your banner. Because you may have purchased two legions of those Sun warriors, but they do not fight for you, they fight for the gold you have promised them. For talents and ducats, not banners and honor. If the moment arrives that they think they might not get paid, they will leave. You understand that, do you not?" Dirk-Jan's words clearly continued to cut deeper into the king's skin, most likely piercing his bone at this point.

"Then it is a good thing that moment will not arise."

"Ever the optimist, I do admire that about you, King Thierry. Is that what you admire about the king, Duchess Zelderloo?"

"There are some things which I admire about the - King. I suppose his optimism, though often misplaced, is something I do admire. So then it is settled, your son will learn from Dirk-Jan, from the Duke Van Niljveld, yes?" Thierry hesitated for a moment, but she could tell he had been beaten, and knew he was smart enough to recognize this as the best course of action.

"Yes."

"Very good. Five-thousand, that is it. You never did give us a number, Dirk-Jan."

"No, I did not."

"Well?"

"Perhaps twenty-thousand. More than likely we will only reach fifteen, and that will be that." The young duke looked around at his co-conspirators for a reaction, thought a moment longer, and added: Perhaps twenty-thousand, possibly twenty-five but I highly doubt we will reach that number. How many soldiers does your son command?"

"According to his last reports, somewhere between fifty and seventy."

"Well then, hopefully he will get more." Thierry added in.

"Oh he sent out messages long before he left Diependam, that and Mathieden will be fighting with him as well."

"We trust her?" Thierry asked.

"We do not have much of a choice, and neither does she. She is lucky Mathieden did not reach the same fate as Diependam. If I have been my son, I might have been inclined to burn two cities. We shall see. Was this all for the day?"

"No." Thierry responded with a stiff coldness in his voice.

"No?"

"We received a message earlier today from the Duchess de Licon."

"Ahhhh. And what does it say?" Hekket noticed the hesitation in the old king, acknowledging the unfortunate tidings he was about to present them with.

"Both Licon and Lebatou have fallen. They march north with my nephew at the command, along with a large contingent of Mannes centaur." Duchess Hekket opened her mouth to respond incredulously with a hint of feigned shock at the ineptitude of Thierry's former subjects, but the king continued before she could utter a cutting word.

"But, she has a plan for weakening the forces as they march north." Hekket permitted the disappointment and cynicism to bleed into her tone as she responded.

"Well then, I suppose we will just have to trust her. Both Licon and Lebatou have fallen. Obbinkerloo has been very active, along with Prince Thijn. Is there any way we could get a message back to them?"

"Not likely, not without it being intercepted."

"Pity, I should like to see the Duchess Nadine's head - removed from her body by means of execution."

"My King," Duke Vaars Zelderloo VIII approached his king slowly by horse, "why have we stopped?" The entire combined forces of Biljvank, Zelderloo, Ruuding, and Mathink had halted along the Southern Road just after passing back through Mathieden, the city being another days march out. From there, with more troops from House Mathink, they would resupply in Biljrend, gather troops from Houses Biljvank, Zelderloo, and all of their vassal houses, before continuing on to Rodzijl to do the same and finally reaching Niljden. Rikkert Biljvank, the old king, stared blankly at the fields before him. Looking back west, towards the ashen ruins of Diependam, and finally to the forests of Boum, whose dark trunks brooded overhead like a dragon preparing to land upon its prey.

"My King, why have we stopped?" Turning back to the face of his cousin, Rikkert could see the concern and confusion in the Duke Zelderloo's face.

"We have stopped because I ordered us to."

"But why? We must continue our march, we are still many days from Biljrend, and there have been reported sightings of..." Rikkert observed as his cousin swayed back and forth in his saddle, allowing the words coming from his mouth to glaze over his ears. The old king found himself ignoring his cousin and instead glancing at the still columns behind them, as the countless banners flapped in the afternoon breeze.

"I am aware." Rikkert's response caught Vaars of guard, interrupting him in the midst of a sentence. What had he been saying anyways? Was it that important? The duke blinked away a feeling of shock and shortly thereafter permitted his nerves to take back control.

"I know we have just resupplied, but we really must continue. It is not good to let the soldiers get antsy, and it is even less of a good idea to delay with the reports coming from Licon and - "

"Do you know what lies beyond the forests of Boum?" The old king inserted his question, once again cutting off his cousin mid-sentence. After a moment of reflection, adjusting, and thought, Vaars responded.

"No, I do not." Martien Ruuding's snickering could suddenly be heard behind the Zelderloo.

"Martien, do you know?" Rikkert redirected his question to the second of his lieutenants. An eerie smirk came over the duke's face.

"Witches, wild beasts, deranged monsters. Stories, things we tell our children so they do not venture too far at night. We have the same stories in Rodzijl, we say 'Do not go into the woods at night, lest you be snatched up by a manticore prowling in the trees, or an owlbear out for their nightly hunt.'" A slow chuckle emitted from Martien permeated the ears of the king and other duke, sending a sense of unease down the king's spine.

"Yes, well, stories do always contain at least a granule of truth within them. You are well aware of the Kol, yes?" The two dukes nodded their heads silently. "Have you also heard of the Chiyou?"

"No, I can not say I have." Responded the Duke Zelderloo. Rikkert glanced to Martien for a response but was answered with a blank stare.

"They were instrumental in the conquest of the Van Niljveld just over one-hundred years ago."

"Ahh, yes." Martien slithered out. "They are beast men, correct? Part thinking, feeling, person and part beast?"

"They are Bullmen. Their leader, their Chief, is known as the Minotaur. That was of course before splintering into two separate tribes. There are the Chiyou, and the Lesser Chiyou. There is no difference between them except for their reason for splitting - a disagreement in leadership some seventy-five years ago."

"What was the disagreement?" Vaars inquired with genuine curiosity, Martien seemed to be listening out of a sense of duty and nothing more.

"One leader wanted to continue their service to House Biljvank. The other did not. The Lesser Linten wanted to continue their service, and, being the minority, were forced south upon pain of death. They then began terrorizing the Obbinkerloo; eventually they were put in check, consequently leading to neither side desiring to serve us. However, they continue to see each other as enemies, never forgiving the other for what they see as the splintering of the Linten, both party holding the other responsible." By this point, Martien had lost all pretense at listening to his liege, his eyes focusing now upon the soldiers behind them. Ever inspecting our readiness to kill. Duke Martien Ruuding was a very specific type of subordinate - one to let loose when the enemy needed to be fought with excess, and otherwise kept on a short leash. It was a shame Arjen II would not have sided with the old king, for he possessed a much more balanced mind than that of his younger brother. A good leader can always make do with what little they have. 

"I apologize my king, but, I fail to see the relevance of this diatribe. The Linten will not be an ally of ours."

"Perhaps they will not, perhaps they will." King Rikkert clapped the side of saddle, grabbing Martien back to his focus. "I do not care what has to be done, but we need them. They are some of the most ferocious warriors in all of Eruc, possessing razor sharp teeth, detrimental bull horns, thick hides, and a battle cry that would shake the core of any regiment - no matter how well trained."

"What do they fight with?" The Duke Rodzijl was suddenly a captivated audience member, eager to learn more about these 'beast men.'

"Axes typically, occasionally clubs - whatever they can get their hands on really."

"And you want to ally with them?" Vaars' sheepish tone could hardly be heard over the excitement being exuded from Martien's being.

"You catch on quickly, Duke Vaars." Duke Martien's snicker once again rang out behind the Zelderloo, this time with much greater vim.

"Duke Martien, congratulations! You have earned the glory of meeting with the Linten." A surprising drop in enthusiasm fell over the duke. Scared, are we?

"My King, I am not a messenger boy. I will, of course, send a contingent of my soldiers to parlay with these Linten for you, but - "

"I want you to personally lead this mission. It is vital we gain their allegiance." A moment passed as thoughts could clearly be seen raising through the young duke's mind.

"But, my King, what if they kill me?"

"Then you will have died serving your liege." The Duke Rodzijl's unnatural laugh eked out in a higher pitch as an immediate response.

"Yes, I suppose I will have. But, will my House continue to follow you?"

"Have your nieces returned?"

"If they have, then they have been arrested."

"And will your people release them when word of your untimely demise reaches them?" A look of sad confusion overcame the duke.

"I do not know."

"Well, I could probably persuade them to serve me - in exchange for their release of course." Martien glanced to Vaars, who seemed to be getting a small amount of enjoyment from this interaction.

"My King, I-I really do not believe this to be a sound strategy." Rikkert cocked his head to the right inquisitively.

"Why is that?"

"You need me on the battle field, my King." Desperation began to set in.

"I need the Linten on the battle field. An army approaches from the south, the Duchess Obbinkerloo has reportedly been terrorizing our western allies along with the new Duchess Diependam, and they may make a play against us once news of Diependam gets out. If they do not come this way, they may march due north to cut us off, and we need something there to intercept them if they do." A knight on horseback rode up to the three nobles, his gambeson a red mastiff on a field of green.

"My lords, my King."

"What?"

"A falcon has arrived." The knight extended a small rolled up piece of parchment. Snatching the document from the mastiff knight's hand, Rikkert read the message quickly:

King Rikkert,

While our cities have fallen, we do remain loyal to you, King Guyard, and King Thierry. The Duchess Belle and I have devised a plan to hinder the armies of King Phillipe and the Duchess Nadine. We suspect in two weeks time to be forced to stop, weakened and vulnerable, searching for new sources of water. If, however, they discover our plot sooner than anticipated, it is guaranteed that their forces will still be sorely weakened. When that time comes, we will turn on them. We only number fifteen-thousand against seventy-five. I like our odds, however, due to our element of surprise. Numbers being what they are, however, perhaps you would be able to send along a contingent to trail us, being able to then aid us in our efforts when the time comes?

Sincerely,

Henri Batelle, the Duke Lebatou

"What does it say, my King?" Vaars leaned forward on his saddle. Rikkert, keeping his eyes upon the letter, directed his voice to his lieutenants, Martien especially.

"These are not even my vassals. Henri and Belle, they are simply allies, and yet, they are willing to fight and risk their lives to aid in our war efforts. Martien, perhaps you could learn from them." Gritting his teeth, the duke responded slowly and with mentally rehearsed intention.

"My King, I urge you to think rationally. I will send my best knights, they will handle the negotiations with the Linten expertly." King Rikkert put down the paper and looked back and forth between his two lieutenants, both of them nobles with great concern betraying their facial expressions.

This is who I have to fight beside me? Unwilling to risk their own life unless it is a guarantee of victory. What will they do, then, when the time comes to march into an unknown battle of equal or lesser odds in our favor? When that day comes, will they turn face and abandon me? Martien does have a small point, I must admit. I am responsible for Kristje's father's death, and I do not know if she would give her loyalty to me, regardless of what it might win her. Perhaps I must relent.

"Very well, Martien. Duke Martien. Send one hundred of your best knights and their retinues. They are to approach the Linten, I do not care what they have to say, I do not care how they gain their alliance. Use lies, deceit, anything in your arsenal. Threats, false promises, whatever needs to be done to gain their loyalty and send them south-west to intercept King Phillipe. I had operated under the assumption that Phillipe was with his uncles in Pelaresse, and the Duchess Obberinkerloo was on her own with my cousin Prince Thijn, but this message informs me that an army of ninety-thousand marches across the Plains of the Last Garlieux. They must be halted in their tracks. They can not reach Pelaresse before we do. Understand?"

"Yes, your Majesty." Both nobles responded. Rikkert noted the heightened fear in their eyes, that was good. They understood the new severity of their situation.

"Write down the orders and send them along their way, Duke Martien. Try pitting them against the Lesser Linten, tell them we have reported sightings that they are marching north to strike at their long lost cousins. Promise them aid when the time arrives in exchange for theirs."

"Understood, my King."

"Dismissed." Rikkert drew his attention back to the woods, the Forest of Boum. If the stories were true, then one-hundred of the best knights of House Ruuding might not even make it to the Linten, or will be killed on sight even if they do. It was a risk the king had to take, he knew it, and he hated that he knew it. He hated the pit that sat in his stomach. The old king knew, somehow he knew, that with Phillipe leading the army, Hein was amongst them. Surely he was just in the King's entourage, but all the same, he could be sending his brother's death sentence. King Rikkert swallowed hard, wiped a tear from his face, and clenched his jaw. War brings death. I must resign myself to the fact that I have no control over whose death's are brought by it. Turning to his soldiers and lieutenants, the king dug his heels into his horse and continued on the march. East o Biljrend once again.

The Lebatou River, laying just two miles from the city itself, spanning no more than fifty yards at its widest, originated from the base of Vannes Mountain in the Desramaux Range to the south and lazily meandered its way northwest into the River de la Garlieux. Aside from the fishing villages that dotted along, this body of water was normally insignificant to the wider machinations of the factions which encompassed it. But today, on the western bank, seated atop his steed, was the young King Phillipe Desramaux, First of his name, Emperor of the Desravank Empire, Co-Founder of House Desravank. To his right sat the old Prince Hein Biljvank, to his left, and the primary reason for meeting on horseback, was Mother, Chief, and High Chief Blazing Arrow of the Mannes Tribes. To the right of Hein and back a little, sat the Duke Serge Garlen, the Duke Garlennes; to the left and back of Blazing Arrow sat the Duchess Zoe Pascelet, the Duchess Parseille, and further behind her still sat Duke Henri Batelle, the Duke Lebatou. On the eastern bank, seated upon her horse, adorned in her full plate armor save her bull-horned helmet, was Nadine Obbink, the Duchess Obbinkerloo. To her right sat lover and prince, Thijn Biljvank, uncle to the Queen and Empress, brother to the deceased King. To her left sat the newly crowned Duchess Heleen Dietma, the Duchess Diependam; she had already received the title of Duchess From The Ashes by her knights and fellow nobles. To the right and back of Thijn sat Duchess Belle de Licon, the Duchess Licon. Behind both sides were armies of roughly equal strength.

On the western side, stood fifteen-thousand under the command of the Duke Garlen, fifteen-thousand under the command of the Duchess Parseille, and ten-thousand under the command of High Chief Blazing Arrow with an additional ten-thousand from the newly bent knee of the Duke Lebatou; in total, fifty-thousand soldiers. On the eastern bank, stood twenty-thousand following the command of the Duchess Obbinkerloo, their black and white banners bearing the crest of the dueling Bull Men of the Linten flowed proudly in the winds. Amongst them was an additional fifteen-thousand that flew the banner of House Dietma, a reinvigorated band of soldiers that now had nothing else but revenge to live for. Alongside them, forcefully put together and begrudgingly sharing space amongst the other banners, stood a force of roughly five-thousand flying the perytons of House de Licon. Grand total: forty-thousand.

The vertices of each angle of leaders encouraged their horses onto the bridge, bringing the two face to face. Phillipe stared the old duchess up and down, though, perhaps old was not the way to describe this woman. From what he knew of her, he knew that she was well into her sixth decade, fifty--four, perhaps fifty-five. Yet, she did not look the part; her hair was grey, though, not grey, but instead silvery, long, and flowing in the wind. She bore few wrinkles, the primary being at the corners of her mouth and her eyes, no doubt from years of scowling and grinning - the young king hoped they contained more facetious intent than devious over the years. King Phillipe found himself very impressed with her full set of plate armor, making her one of the few he knew of who owned such a set; not even he was in possession of a full set. He owned a breast plate, of course, along with plated shoulders, chausses, and grieves; however, his arms were protected by splint and his gorget was made of chain. Still, he possessed the most complete set, that he knew of, in the entirety of the Desramaux Dynasty.

Neither of them spoke for quite some time, staring each other down. Perhaps she was making a similar analysis of him. What would she think of the young king?Her family is renowned for their battles, their tactics and skills in combat. After all, they have had to content with the Bull Men and all the other beasts of the Forests of Boum for generations now. Of course, the history of the Desramaux Dynasty was nothing to sneeze at. What gods does she worship? What gods did he worship? There are the typical three: Clarion, Darion, and Dekinhold. You pray for nature and balance in the world, you pray for health and a good life, and you pray for law and order, and most of all justice. It was practical for a king to pray to these three. In fact, the young king recalled reading a story about a very far off place that gave no credence to any other gods, only worshipping Clarion, Darion, and Dekinhold. They saw no reason to worship any of the others. Why worship a god of war, when we have law and justice? Why worship a god of the harvest when we have balance in nature? Why worship the god of death, when we have life? It was curious, though Phillipe found himself giving little credence to this philosophy, after all, without Pictoah, the Goddess of Wisdom and Innovation, where would we be today? We would still be mindless creatures utilizing the most rudimentary methods and tools to kill and cook our food - assuming we even knew to do that. And what of Mata? What of Mata. Or Erona, goddess of the Moons, would our nights not be plunged into darkness without her? There are, naturally, those who are less than desirable. Like the God of Tyranny and Domination, Quetzcoatl, and his twin sister, Ptakoth, the Goddess of Lies, Deceit, and Dark Secrets. Together they ruled the Fel Woods, and together they plotted means of corrupting mortals. Doubtless, she would not worship them, right? But, what if she did? What if she was not to be trusted? She never did formally declare herself for either side, merely raising an army and fighting. What if this meeting is not a meeting of friends, but a parlay before battle? This would be detrimental to the war effort; even if they did win, who knows what numbers they would be able to scrape together after the bout? Even assuming it to be a total victory, Nadine and Thijn being the brilliant commanders that they are would regroup and strike again. Phillipe would not be able to leave the Southern Road unattended, forcing him to fight a two fronted war against two enemies. And what if in secret, through the guidance of Ptakoth even, Duchess Nadine had declared herself for the false King Rikkert? After all, he is Thijn's cousin. But, no, Thijn was the beloved uncle to his Queen, his Empress, he would not betray them surely. They did not think Rikkert would betray them. Hein was certain of it, he was so unbelievably certain that his brother was doing everything in his power to maintain the strength and defense of the capital Biljrend; though, to his credit, he did, just not for them.

Finally, Nadine spoke.

"My lord, you seem distraught." Her voice was even toned, eyes betraying not a glint of the emotions going on beneath them. It was then the King realized he was allowing his emotions to show fully on his face: confusion, anger, distrust, all of them - none of them were good. A smirk crawled across the left side of the Duchess' face.

"I see you never received my letter, King Phillipe. I am the Duchess Nadine Obbink, Duchess of Obbinkerloo. My Queen is the Empress Jolijn Biljvank. My empire, is the Desravank Empire. You need not fear, this army is here for you." A weight sloughed off his shoulders as Phillipe allowed a smile to join his face in tandem with hers.

"This is wonderful news. I was away so long with Blazing Arrow that I am afraid I am not entirely up to date on affairs. Hein has of course brought me up to speed with the best of his ability, but, even he has not been in full communication with our side. How fares your army?"

"We fare well."

"And, how fares your efforts?" Nadine, though already quite upright, brought herself up a little higher in her saddle, pride exuding from her body.

"Licon has fallen." She spoke matter-of-factly. "Duchess Belle de Licon has reaffirmed her loyalty to you and Queen Jolijn." Phillipe glanced passed the duchess slightly and at her army, the banners flying high being the direction of his focus.

"Has she provided soldiers?"

"Unwillingly, but yes, five-thousand."

"That is all?"

"That is all."

"How many do you number?"

"Forty. And you?"

"Fifty."

"Last our reports told, Rikkert's army numbers almost seventy. By now he must have been gathering more support, bringing his numbers closer to that of our combined forces."

"That is likely. What of the nobles in the north, have you heard from them?"

"No. I have not been in contact with anyone outside of those whom I have sent messages too. Who leads the effort in the north?"

"That would be my uncles." An inquisitive look was allowed to betray the duchess' face at this answer.

"Your, uncles?"

"I suppose there is some humor in that. Yes, both of my uncles lead the war effort in the north, one on either side." Nadine's facetious grin came back over her lips.

"Well, you should be happy to know, then, they report Rikkert has abandoned the South. He marches his army north, predictably to meet with the armies gathering at Niljden. Odds are they will then push west to join with Guyard Pelariaux, assuming he has not already pushed west himself."

"I agree with your assessment, and it is not likely Guyard has done so. Pelaresse has been under siege two months now. If Rikkert and Thierry do go west, it will be in an attempt to break the siege." Duchess Nadine merely nodded her head in agreement at this assessment from the king, her king.

"What other cities have fallen? I know Rodzijl and Castle Zelderloo have sworn loyalty to Rikkert, along with the city of Biljrend - though no doubt from some persuasion by the sword against the local nobility. How fares Mathieden and Diependam? I see the banners of House Dietma flying high amongst your own." Nadine turned her attention back to her forces, returning it shortly back to Phillipe, a grave look having over taken her look.

"Yes. The Duchess From The Ashes."

"The Duchess From The Ashes?"

"Mathieden fell. They surrendered and have joined up, through threat of death, with Rikkert's forces. Diependam abandoned their city. All civilians moved to Obbinzum and Obbinkerloo as refugees with my son watching over them, along with a force of some twenty-thousand. Ten-thousand of which willingly followed Thijn away from Biljrend, and another five-thousand from Diependam and five from Obbinkerloo." The old duchess allowed herself a pause, once again giving a dower look to her king. Phillipe felt his heart begin to sink, fear filling it with more and more weight.

"As far as the city goes, Diependam has been burned to the ground." Fear was quickly replaced with rage, the young king's heart now soring nearly out of his throat.

"What?"

"Those who remained in Diependam were a small contingent of retinue, the old duke's most trusted soldiers, and the Duke, ailing and bed ridden he refused to leave - despite our offers to take him out on palanquin."

"So he is dead?"

"Yes, along with the city. We imagine Rikkert has left some forces behind, more than likely at Mathieden should we decide to march east. But, we see now reason to do so. The smoke could be seen from Obbinzum, billowing in the distance. However, reports do confirm that Rikkerts army has left its western march, turning back east along the southern road." It was now Phillipe's turn to return a grave expression, his eyes seeking out the figure in armor bearing the single grey fist on her right hand, undoubtedly the now Duchess Dietma. What King burn's his own cities? Not one deserving of a crown, that was for certain.

"I see. What is the Duchess' name?"

"Heleen."

"Bring her here, please."

"Very well." The Duchess Nadine raised an arm and motioned forward. All three seated behind came forward. Slowly approaching, Thijn was continuously looking back to the Duchess de Licon. The three leaders made their way to behind Nadine.

"Duchess Heleen Dietma." King Phillipe bowed his head to her and raised it. The duchess was younger, older than the king, but younger than Nadine, most likely having just entered her fourth decade, thirty or thirty-one. Her hair was shaved and black, kept slightly longer on the top. She wore a brigandine tabard of black over a black gambeson. On her left hand was a black scale glove and black scale vambraces. On her right was an unpainted, steel plate glove and steel scale vambraces, the trademark of House Dietma as displayed on their banners. Her face was hard, containing a jawline that could surely cut parchment. The young king imagined the physique beneath that armor must have been nothing but pure muscle - hard and powerful. The Duchess From The Ashes bowed her head in response and lifted it back up.

"My king." She spoke in a low voice, deeper than Hein's.

"When all is done, and we have victory; I pledge to you on this day, and before these witnesses that the very first order will the movement of funds and labor from the crown to rebuild your city. I pledge this on my house, on my name, and on my honor." Betraying no sense of emotion, Duchess Heleen bowed her head once again.

"Your highness is very gracious. I thank you. Might I ask, my king, where we go from here?" All members of the eastern nobility looked to the young king for his answer.

"Well, the Duchess Nadine and I were just discussing this. I believe we must march north, due north, crossing the Plains of the Last Garlieux." Some concern came over Heleen and Belle's faces.

"My king, would that not be a treacherous journey?"

"Why would that be treacherous? There is nothing but open fields with the occasional patch of trees. The Mannes Tribes have been roaming around those plains for generations. To the east there is the River Boum, and to the west, the River de la Garlieux. I believe we will be protected."

"Believe and actuality can often be two different things." Turning to face the source of the voice, Phillipe held down a feeling of anger at such an interjection. His gaze met that of Prince Thijn. Similar in age of that to Nadine, as well as appearance, he still held the physique of a soldier despite his decades of life.

"Ah, the bachelor prince."

"I am a bachelor no more." Thijn glanced to Nadine, who did her worst to hide a smile.

"Prince Thijn, we shall be safe. We have food, we have supplies for camp, we have water and means of collecting water. The journey will be safe. We have an army of ninety-thousand. Should any such enemy as a wild beast approach us, I have my utmost confidence that we will cut them down the same as we will to Rikkert's army." Thijn simply bowed his head.

"Very good, my King."

"Prepare your armies. Have them cross the river. We will camp together tonight and march first thing in the morning. We march for Pelaresse to aid the siege. With any luck, with this direct route, we will reach my uncle's army long before Prince Rikkert's. Once the city falls, we will meet him on the open field and cut him down."

"Very good, my King." The group of nobles bowed before King Phillipe. He hesitated, but then allowed himself to bow to them in return. Yes, they were his vassals, yes they were his subjects, but they lived and died for him. If there was still any questioning in their heart's of whether they had chosen the right king, he must assuage those questions and reinforce the ideals of his house, as instilled by his father. Respect begets respect; Peace Through Prosperity; Blood, Wine, and Steel.

Prince Claude sat gleefully upon his brown horse. Seated atop a hill, watching as his raiding party made their second charge into the northern most flank of the siege force around Pelaresse. His own family banners flew high before him, though pride weld up inside him. To his left, sitting on a black mare, was his son, Prince Jean-Claude Desramaux. Both were adorned in brigandine of black with golden roses in the center, over black gambesons, splint over their arms and legs, with leather gloves and riding boots. Sheathed in its scabbard at his left hip, rested a longsword. Though it had been years since he made any use of it, these raids were a chance to show it off - despite his never getting close enough to the fray, the risk of an arrow to the head was far too great for the old prince. He knew his brother's tactics, he knew they would swat off these raids with ease. Therefore, of course, the purpose of these raids were not to destroy the siege camp, but rather to simply nag at them, nipping at their heals and keeping them from gathering their forces fully for an assault. So far he had been quite successful on this front.

Today was particularly gleeful, for two raids occurred simultaneously. The southern end was being led by one of King Guyard's most trusted captains. Claude could not remember the knights name, but he knew she was ferocious. At least, he thought she was ferocious. Why else would she be trusted then? She must be ferocious, and brilliant of course - that is what makes one a good knight, and a good commander. After all, that was why he was in command, why both he and his son were in command. The blood of brilliant strategist Prince Jean flowed through both of their veins. Proudly. Proudly flowed through their veins. Far to the south was a raiding party of five hundred cavalry, meant to nag, run and raid, burn a few tents, and slice a few necks, nothing more, nothing less. Today's northern raid, however, well, the prince thought it wise to put on a bit of a show. He packed his pipe, placed it into his mouth, and lit it with a wide smirk on his face.

Before the two Desramaux Princes was five-thousand soldiers, all of them baring the gold and azure of House Pelariaux. Four-thousand spears and one-thousand archers, effectively creating a pitched battle thanks to the old princes brilliant and specific instructions. Charge forward, kill a few, run back! Which they of course executed with resounding success. Upon the armies return, Claude told his lieutenants to repeat his orders once more. Reform. Regroup. Charge forward, kill a few, maybe throw a torch, and run back. Once they returned for the second time, he was only going to send enough forward to protect the archers, of course, permitting them to fire their lighted arrows into the siege camp unhindered.

Prince Claude looked to his son, who was frowning.

"Will you not smoke with me this day, my boy?" A grin wrinkled over his flabby features, the light of the afternoon sun reflecting from his balding head.

"Father I... do not fully understand what it is we are doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"What is the purpose of this?"

"What is the purpose? Well we-we are distracting the siege. We are nagging them! Terribly so!" The old prince clenched his right fist and held it close to his chest, an unformal sign of excited success. Jean-Claude did not react with the same excitement his father had hoped he would.

"Are we?" The tone in his son's voice forced the old prince to whirl his full attention towards him.

"Yes! Do you not see the skirmish happening in front of you? It-it-it-it is wonderful!"

"How many soldiers have we lost?" Claude returned his attention to the bottom of their hill, his left hand resting underneath the pipe.

"I do not know. I have not been keeping track - you count the dead after the battle, dear son."

"It might be good to do so during the battle as well father, do you not think so?" A scowl overcame the old prince's face.

"Why?"

"In case we need to call a retreat?"

"Why in the name of Bershion would we need to call a retreat? It is a skirmish! I am sure we will lose no more than one-hundred... perhaps two." Claude permitted himself to gesticulate as he spoke this, his excitement for the battle and annoyance with his son driving his movements. Glancing towards his son, the old prince furrowed his brow as Jean-Claude's expression remained contemplative.

"And how many do you think they will lose?" Claude sighed deeply, a large puff of smoke exiting along with the sound.

"Well, son, it is basic arithmetic. We have four-thousand spears down there, along with one-thousand archers. Therefore, we can estimate a similar amount to their losses!" Claude could tell his son was not happy with the answer as his expression remained unmoving.

"Why do you say that?" The old prince sighed once more, allowing a grin to overcome his face with amusement. Oh, to be young and naïve. He thought to himself.

"Listen, son. The... the difficulties and the planning an-an-an-and everything that goes on behind strategy... and planning of a fight, of a pitched - of a raid! This is a raid! We are just raiding." Settling back into his saddle, the prince looked to his son for his response.

"How?" Claude nearly flew off of his horse as he lurched back in astonishment.

"What do you mean how? We are doing it! It is happening right now, do you not see the soldiers in front of you? The arrows flying back and forth. Do you not hear the sound of battle?"

"Yes I hear the sound of battle, I do not hear the sound of a raid." Prince Claude chuckled to himself.

"Son, I challenge you to give me... to define the difference between a raid and a battle." The old prince, proud of his response, turned back to face the raid in front of him, puffing the scent of coffee from his lips.

"Well... a raid is typically fast moving. You run in, maybe you kill some people, certainly cause some chaos, but your primary objective is not to kill. Rather your primary objective is to destroy goods and tents and damage morale as a result."

"Killing people does certainly damage morale, son."

"Certainly, but... the primary goal should just be to pillage, burn things, send the enemy into disarray."

"Alright then, what is the primary goal of a battle, then?"

"Well, to kill people. To beat them so much that they retreat and run away."

"Ye-yes. That is correct. See a raid is simply a-a-a short battle."

"I thought that was a skirmish." Prince Claude sharply brought his focus back to Jean-Claude.

"Son, I will not be-! … How many battles have you fought?"

"None. How many have you fought?"

"That is not relevant here. What is relevant, my son, my child, is that we are winning. We are doing our duty to our side of the battle. Our side of the war!"

"Should we not be down there leading them?"

"We are leading them. This is called leading at a distance. I have delegated, delegated. You see, delegation is a very important thing when leading, son. If I were to take on the entire command by myself, well, that would be quite selfish. It might be too much for me. So, I have successfully delegated it out to several lieutenants." A pause came before Prince Jean-Claude responded to his father.

"I see." Prince Claude peered in his son's direction, back to the raid, once again to this son, and ending out to the siege camp and raid.

"Pull out your pipe, son. Smoke with me." 

"I am not sure this is the right time for smoking, father."

"It is always the right time for smoking. Have I taught you nothing?"

"You have taught me a great deal father, of course." The young prince sheepishly pulled his pipe from his pouch along with a small sack of ground coffee, pack his bowl, and fumbled around for matches.

"Here you are, son."

"Thank you." Both leaning towards each other, the old prince lit the match and placed the flame within the bowl for his son. One puff. Two puffs. Three puffs. Just as I taught. He shook out the match and the two Desramaux Princes sat on their horses, smoking and watching the raid before them.

"How do we know if we are winning?"

"We do not."

"Should we not be able to know?"

"Not for a raid. There is no winner or loser in a raid, son. You just, you just raid."

"Right. That makes sense."

"Good." A pause. The wonderful aroma of coffee surrounded the two - hints of hazelnut and maple permeated the air around the old prince while walnut and nutmeg came from the pipe of his son.

"What if Uncle Guillaume is there?" Claude took in a deep breath before answering, hoping to gain some wisdom from the beans ground up and burning in his pipe.

"Well... he can handle himself in a fight. Did you know - do you know what your uncle's weapon of choice is?"

"No, no I cannot say that I do."

"A morning star!" The old prince chuckled as he spoke. "Do you know what a morning star is?"

"Yes, I do! It is a dreadful weapon."

"It is, and that is what he uses."

"He must have quite the strong arm."

"Yes, I have bore witness to the destruction of countless practice mannequins. I am sure he is enjoying himself something great!"

"Is... is fighting supposed to be fun?"

"Of course it is supposed to be fun! Are you not having fun right now?"

"I-I do not know. I suppose this is relaxing in a way. I am smoking some coffee, I am seated upon a good horse, I am watching something take place. The weather is delightful."

"Well there you go. We are having fun. This is a fun time." The old prince repacked and relit his pipe, not bothering to dump out the previous ashes. This blend is best enjoyed with a mix of half-fresh grounds and half-burned. The sweetness of the maple curled through his mouth to counteract the bitterness of the already burned coffee, while the hazelnut burned smoothly to guide the two contrasts together. An exquisite juxtaposition of flavors.

"Should we be having fun during war?" Blasted boy. Prince Claude took his pipe from his mouth, letting it smolder in his left hand as his taste buds began to yearn for its flavors.\

"Son, there is something that I need you to understand. At least we are doing something. We are not simply sitting on the sidelines, waiting to see how the war turns out. As much as I should like to do that, we have chosen a side and as such are expected to help them. And, if we have a little fun doing so, all the better, right?"

"Right, father. Oh, it looks as though the lieutenants are returning."

"Ah! Excellent, I look forward to hearing their reports."

"They are not moving very quickly."

"Well, they did just finish a raid, they are bound to be sluggish."

"There are not many of them." Claude stood in his saddle in an attempt to get a better view of his approaching forces.

"What do you mean there are not many of them?"

"Well, we sent four-thousand."

"Yes?"

"They are starting to run now."

"They are starting to run, that-that is good.... Right? Yes, it is very good. They are... they are making haste. They must have picked up their energy."

"What is that in the air behind them?" Jean-Claude pointed out in front of them to indicate what he was speaking of.

"It looks like rain."

"But there are no clouds in the sky."

"It can rain on a cloudless day, it has happening before. Oh... oh they are falling. A lot of them are falling..."

"I do not think that is rain, fa-"

"Yes. It is arrows. It is definitely arrows." The old prince chuckled with a quiver in his voice. "I should have guessed that from the start. I do not know why you suggested rain, son. They are clearly being shot at." Proud at his deduction, the old prince sat up straighter, wanting nothing more than to soak in the aroma pouring forth from his pipe.

"Should we run out and rally them, father?"

"Rally them? What good would that do? We might get shot. And if we get shot, we will die. And that, dear son, is not fun, now is it?" Prince Claude turned to give his son a quizzical look.

"I would not imagine so, no."

"Very good, you catch on quickly, son. Now, when the lieutenants return, they will give us a full report, and then I want you to deliver the next message." Jean-Claude gave his father a confused expression.

"The... the next message?"

"The next orders. To march forward with flaming arrows and fire."

"Oh, right. Yes, those orders. Yes, right, right. Oh, but, look!" Trepidation came out with the young princes words now. "They are being pursued."

"They are being pursued? Oh. So they are. Well, son, here is a perfect example of whether you know if you are winning or losing. Right now, it appears we are losing this raid. Let us head back to the main force, then. We will gather some cavalry and send them in to provide cover so that these soldiers might return home. Yes? Good." The two princes spun their steeds around when Prince Claude noticed something truly horrifying.

"Oh, your pipe has gone out, son. Shall I relight it for you? You will surely want something to smoke for the ride back." The young prince glanced down at his pipe, carved from oak and coated with a resin made from the sap of a pine tree. A large rose adorned the front of the bowl, while vines of grapes wove their way up to the mouth piece.

"That is alright, father, I- that is alright."