RP Session 2: "To the Mattresses"

Riding hard down the main street of Bardenhold, Lancaelad guided the nine riders to the northern gate - they knew that the southern at least lay in the hands of their enemies, and also that their pursuers were stretched thin across the town so it stood to reason that the north had been left undisturbed, and with the horses stored to the south scattered the gate itself would be the last obstacle to flight.

It was the work of moments before they reigned in before a sleepy night guard with a lantern hanging from his pike, silver whiskers and his kettle helm pushed back so far as to be merely decorative. Bardenhold's curfew kept visitors out and not in outside daylight hours, but even so it was only their urgent insistence that there were enemies in the walls that hurried the man to lifting the bar and opening the gate. Dubious given no one appeared on the road after them, he grudgingly banged on the door of the small barracks that flanked the gate and roused a couple of his fellows, one of whom he commanded on to the manse to raise an alarm.

By the time the horses rode out they could only imagine that the mercenaries that dogged them were just discovering that they had no mounts, and hopefully that would be the end of Bardenhold's troubles.

Hopefully.

Wasting no time they put to the highway and rode through the night until they reached the northernmost border of Abbadiel. Here at the crest of a wooded hill they paused to settle their nerves, look back for pursuers and tend to Aeric. Corson fed another of his enchanted berries to the scholar, but he'd once again lapsed into unconsciousness and the prognosis looked grim under the care they could afford him on the road. A temple on the road was out of the question - it was too obvious - and it waseventually decided that Breuddwyd would guide Aeric to the elves of the Erebannien and rejoin them once a healer had been found.

There was scant time for farewells, and before the grey of dawn showed Breuddwyd and Aeric were gone.

With their task in mind, the remaining companions pressed north, but much had changed. Whatever veil of banality the Baroness had hoped they might maintain was a false hope and they were woefully unprepared to face strong opposition. Thankfully this land held many friends, and with the Bjording's hunting lodge little more than a half day north and the Lord and Lady of Edlin certainly at their woodland residence it seemed prudent to pay a visit to Tovrunn's Anuirean guardians for aid, and to get word back to Proudglaive.

Though they rode through the day keeping to the back roads as much as possible, it was still late in the afternoon before their tired mounts rounded a familiar corner and Tovrunn could see the gravel path, choked with fallen leaves and winding into the sun-dappled wood through a veil of cricket song. Here and there the sound of deer, unseen beyond the trees. Eventually they rounded the last bend to reveal a tall house built on an island in the centre of a mirror-surfaced lake, nestled in the woods.



Just off the path ahead a pair of riders watched as a hunting hound raced into the undergrowth. Even at a distance Tovrunn recognised her Roesonian hosts, and she felt suddenly self-conscious of the bloodied and exhausted state of her company. Still, the Bjordings had always been a rustic folk by the standards of Anuire and the urgency of their mission denied them the nicities of a courtly visit.

The pair of riders turned their steeds as they were hailed. Despite a generation's dilution, Sven Bjording was still the fierce, pale-eyed warrior his ancestors had been. His golden braids and deeply lined features at odds with the soft red-dun leathers of countryside finery. His wife Mathilde by contrast could not have been more Anuirean, her auburn curls touched by premature grey and her tasteful grey skirts arranged side-saddle, but she wheeled her mount with every ounce the mastery of her husband.

"Tovrunn, and Ser Noelon?" called the Lady of Edlin, confusioncolouring concern in her tone "but I thought you were to be abroad on an errand for the realm."

"Is that blood on your surcoat lad?" added Sven. Even at this distance Lancaelad realised he must look a ruin. Corson yet more so.

The Bjordings looked between one another in silent conference, then back to the seven bedraggled riders. "I can't promise the safety of our house, we have only the household guard-" Lord Bjording began "-but I can extend its hospitality for as long as you need it." The words were undoubtedly his own, but they felt somehow ancient and ceremonial.

"Come now, let's get you all inside and cleaned up" added Lady Mathilde, ushering them toward the overgrown lodge. "And you'd best tell the guard what's at your back."

At the end of the trestle in the hunting lodge's modest great hall the Lord slammed a heavy fist on the arm of his chair. "I knew we should not have allowed a charge of ours to get mixed up in such things!" he growled, his face like a brewing storm. "Peace my love" chided his wife "the name Auðunardottir carries with it no plea for protection. She was sent here to learn the ways of Anuire, and the intrigues of our courts are at the heart of that."

Sven calmed, but seemed little at ease. "The garrison are to the west and north, there is present cause to fear for both borders. I have only house guard, but if you have use for them they are at your call. As to armed men? Marching rank and file under banner would certainly raise eyebrows, but mercenaries travel in small parties, and no doubt these and more can smell gold in Medoere. Fifty or so warriors in small cohorts? They could march to the gates of the City of Anuire without challenge if they raised no banner."

"Whispers are not something to which your ears are attuned husband" Mathilde said, placing her hand on her lord's forearm before turning back to Tovrunn. "Perhaps Rikke has heard word?"