Before joining the meeting, Lancaelad sat down to scribe a message to the castellan of Blacktower and governor of the province of Caercas, Traese Noelon. His quillmanship was fluid and handsome, bespeaking a would-be poet as much as an aspiring knight of the Order of the Black Hart.
Father,
I bid you greetings and hope this missive finds its way to you swiftly. The task assigned to me by Lord Biersen has proven to be more than a mere honour guard detail. No sooner had the baroness' guests disembarked their ship from foreign climes than were we beset by fierce opposition. I rallied the royal marines and my own companions to drive them off, and the docks of Abbadiel were washed with the blood of low-born sellswords ere the sun was full. Aware that there were more of their dark cohorts about, I commanded we take to the backroads of the wonderous Erebannien to evade them, conscious of the safety of my charges over my desire to meet them in honest battle. Seeking refuge for the night in Bardenhold, we found the town infiltrated by yet more mercenaries, and it was only a bold lightning-strike by myself, alone and bearing the red badge of battle's kiss, into their back lines that saved my companions from being overrun.
Lest this message be intercepted, I shall not reveal where I write to you from, but I must warn you of the dangers all about. These brigands serve the so-called Prince of Rabbits, and they are many in number, widely cast in position, and have infiltrated even the guards loyal to the baroness' vassals. I urge you to be alert, as they may have eyes and ears even in the royal court! They know us by description, and communicate with cunning signals and surreptitious means. Enclosed in this message find the intelligence I recovered from the leader of the sellswords in Bardenhold.
I shall not let this opposition stay me from my duty. My charge shall be delivered safe and sound to his destination, 'pon my oath. If you would aid us, be the Hound that scourges these Rabbits from Roesone, however high their office might be.
I remain your faithful son,
Lancaelad Noelon.
Lancaelad leaned back in his chair as the candles burned low, pinching the bridge of his nose. All this plotting and dithering wore on a temperament more suited for sudden acts of glorious force than subterfuge. But the enemy they faced was numerous and cunning... he recognised they must be more foxes than lions to win the day. It would sully the glory to be won if they surrounded themselves in a battalion of men at arms. He comforted himself that it was not unheard of for knights to hide their heraldry and conceal their faces to take foes by surprise in a passage of arms, tourney or skirmish; when the time was right, he would unveil the stooping hawk of House Noelon and teach these blackguards the meaning of battle.
"Very well," he sighed, raising his cup. His squire Paidrig stepped forward and washed out the dregs of wine with a pitcher of water; he did not want to drink too much for the remainder of the night. "We have an accord. A strategy, even. We rise before first light, dress ourselves differently than is our respective custom, saddle our steeds, and then, Rhoderick...?"