Dubhaine Family/Brigdha/Roleplays/2017/December
10th Dectember
Day -- An Najaf
Brigdha
"See dear, this is how your father plans to bring peace to the North," Brigdha passed her brass spyglass to her young companion and guided her eye to the encampment in the valley bottom where various prominent knights were lecturing a captive audience of An Najaf's leading families on liberty whilst armed guards looked on.
"My father wants to-" Glory's tone was indignant.
"Shhsh m'lady," Kris put his finger to her lips, "we don't want to attract attention."
"My father wants to bring them freedom," the fire in her young eyes matched her insistent whisper, the spyglass for the moment forgotten.
"Oh Glory, you have a lot to learn about life if you think freedom can be imposed with a sword," Brigdha put a hand on her shoulder.
"And what do you know of freedom!" Glory pulled away, shaking with anger.
"You ask me that?" a wry smile soured Brigdha's lips, "I've fought the war your father now fights and it cost me my sister, my niece, my grandniece - all the line of blood which binds our two Houses. And you ask me what I know of freedom? I've known your father since long before you were born Glory, and I've seen him at his best... and at his worst - neither were amenable to reason," she took the spyglass and returned it to her satchel.
"And who are you to judge him? A interfering old busybody who spends her days talking with fat merchants and ignorant peasants!"
"A interfering old busybody perhaps child, but I'm old enough to have seen this story play out before," Brigdha turned to the valley below, "and that's why I don't judge Garas. I pity him."
Alfhelm Sussex
Alfhelm had been in a commandeered inn, reading a book of Sirionite history, when one of his network of spies and scouts reported to him that the woman he had been seeking to speak with for some time had been spotted.
"Are you sure?" he asked the scout.
"Yes m'lord. She was accompanied by a young girl and a handful of servants. The militia spotted her but let her pass, however they noted the house sigil on one of her possessions. She is undoubtedly of the House Dubhaine. I left two men to monitor her movements covertly."
"Hmmm," mused Alfhelm. "Well I suppose that she does have free right of movement under our laws as both a priest and a diplomat, so the militia acted properly."
He rose to his feet and put on his cloak.
"You did well to keep her monitored. Take me to her."
Sometime later Alfhelm and the scout rode up to the place where the priestess had last been spotted, overlooking a valley encampment of Highmarchian forces.
Captain Baldric had nearly had kittens when Alfhelm had insisted on travelling alone, but had obeyed orders and kept the Sussex Lancers confined to guarding the inn.
Thus the Representative for Winkamus was quite alone when he dismissed the scouts and rode up to the rise and called out "Hail Lady Ambassador! Might I join you?"
After all, there was no need to startle them and end up with a knife in his eye for his trouble. That would be a most unsatisfactory end for the next Vox of Highmarch.
Garas Gabanus
Goran said "I suppose...Hello Father...and how are you would be the best way to start the conversation." he said with a smile on his face.
Garas just looked at his son, the Prince of Oligarch, although he seemed just am anxious boy now, damagednin some unknown way. It hurt Garas a bit. All he had tried was to protect his family and he has felt a failure since the day he got captured, tortured for months unable to help them, only to find Catherine disappeared upon his escape. Now he saw his son for the first time in years and he just felt pity and shame.
In his younger years Goran was such a playfull boy, who loved to sing and play. He was good at it too, although Garas always insisted on his military training, making him strong. He now misses those times, those songs and the smile Catherine had when she heard him sing. Those were the only times she smiled around Goran, but now that smile is gone and no song will bring it back.
This and much more went through his head as he looked at Goran and so he smiled and looked sad at the same time.
"Now that you have returned I am a happier man," he said "Perhaps now it is time for us to have your sister return as well. Now come and sing me one of your songs."
Rand Al Thor
As Rand walked amongst his men, he wondered if the region of An Najaf would bend to the will of the Highmarch forces and come willingly into the fold and protection it can offer.
Scanning the horizon he didnt notice any signs of enemy forces planning an assault. Though there was lots of movement in the camp all seemed in order, except, yes that is Lord Alfhelm riding out of the camp, strange to go riding so late.
Dismissing the Lords movement from his mind, as he is but a Lowly Knight and Lord's movements is not his concern he enters his Field tent and reads his last received orders from Lord Garas, instructing him to temporarily take command of An Najaf once the region has been annexed.
Looking at Victor, his scribe sitting with the latest reports and messages he say's,
"I wonder if these orders are still valid, these where issued before we where routed from An Najaf, best would be to get clarification. Victor, pen a Letter to Lord Garas and ask for instructions regarding An Najaf and if my last received orders still stand. Make haste and send our fastest messenger"
"Aye My Lord it will be done with all haste"
Sitting back in his chair he ponders the outcome of this campaign, and a time he is back in Aestus looking after his people and Estate.
Brigdha
Message sent to all nobles in the region An Najaf (50 recipients) Hrolf watched the lone horseman approaching the bluff from his hide, the dust from the horse's hooves drifting lazily on the light summer breeze back towards the distant detachment of lancers. Judging by his bearing and finery the man was a high-ranking nobleman and Hrolf's trained eye unconsciously measured the angle of his killing shot as the horse drew into range.
"Hwuuuurt!!! Hwuuuurt!!!" the rider's approach had been marked by a second pair of eyes, perched a quarter-mile away in the branches of a parched oak.
"Pyrwhipt!! Vyroot!!" he returned the signal, easing the bowstring.
"And what might your business with the Ambassador be, young lordling," a stooped crone wrapped in a ragged cloak, leaning what little there was of her on a gnarled staff, limped slowly and painfully from the undergrowth.
