"The Crown Isle?" The hoarse, grizzled voice of a mentor reverberated against the walls of a dark corridor. He called out to a young man standing feet ahead, his hands locked meekly beneath his jaw, the Lord von Rolanthe offered only a hesitant nod.
"That is where the nobility go, that is where the most work can be done." The young lord called back.
"You are a man of this province," The mentor pointed to the black marble flooring, his voice lowered to nearly a whisper, gradually rising with every passing word. "-your 'work' belongs here. The work is here, you– all of you are here, Rolanthe!" The mentor's name was Krier. It was an easy name, one that favored being yelled down halls, valleys, although most importantly, thick and unforgiving, often blazing blackwood forests. Krier had found his position granted to him for his guarded patience and cutthroat resilience. Following his duty on the frontlines fending off the Sanguine Plague, he had retired honorably to continue serving the Lothar Order by training Squires. Often Lords and Ladies of noble houses, who required a leader of dignity, but most importantly, class. Krier understood the delicate balance of one's image and the often dubious and conniving acts of the Darkwald. Alone, were the petty tasks offered to Lothar Squires enough to send noble lounges into perilous cacophonies of shrieks, screams and scoffs. How could one be a knight of such a vicious, violent station and assimilate with the likes of pristine nobility?
The answer was simple, time spent under the wing of Ser Krier of the Darkwald Castle. Krier was no noble, in fact he was raised with very little. It was his time as a diffident Squire that taught him his nature. By sheer luck, the common young man found company in the sons and daughters of nobility. Their families taking a liking to the quick witted ser-to-be, many of them sponsored the friend of their child's tuition. Krier from the moment he stepped foot in the Darkwald domain, found belonging and company. This love did not last long, as all came to believe quickly enough. Some learn the pain with grace, some later than others, but anguish found all men of Lothar eventually, equally.
As for Lord von Rolanthe, who yet knew not a thing of such anguish, had posed himself as quite the challenge for Krier. A Leutzman with a favor for seclusion and an insistent need to fill his role by absorbing the limited perspective offered to him by the confines of his room and own apprehension. He had an affinity for literature and language, along with an inclination towards arts of all kinds. A musician, a painter, a linguist, but only lastly a hunter. But the Count-to-be had something special that was at odds with the reluctance he held towards his training. He held a deep seated love for his heritage. The Lord believed that should it not have been for this culture, that the institution his House swore allegiance to would have never come to be.
Within his province, it was a lame rumor that House von Rolanthe held arguably the strongest living ties to the ancient people of Sarna. To each and every task, Adagio applied this philosophy; the Darkwald exist because of his own. Regardless of whatever this "Pinewood Father" was, at this day it mattered little to the young Lord, as he had only come to believe in recent times; his impetus of the semester was that he was Sarnan, and maybe the other squires could benefit from thinking like him too. Lest to say, Krier had had enough of it and Adagio's antics. His seasonal obsessions started with Altalar tomes the young man would scour from the archives at ungodly hours of the evening, and then his sudden predilection for the various fashions of talons the Rexit people wore. His interests began at unorthodox, although the Squire had begun finally wrapping up his studies. Ser Krier could at least be thankful that Adagio had found interest in something of his own culture. Although this interest helped him little now, as he had been within his squireship for nearly a decade, and had been caught again sneaking out for clandestine tasks. This time, within the Lord's grasp was a stack of papers regarding a sea trip that would take him to the Crown Isle immediately following his graduation.
"And that is it, you are just going away?" Krier moved forth, taking the papers from beneath Adagio's arm, he nodded.
"Well, I have no formal assignment yet as–" He was cut short.
"As you have not been Knighted, and you cannot be assigned to anything." Krier completed whatever embellished response the Squire was to offer, as he read along the paperwork. Every few lines he looked up, eyeing him like a hawk. To each glare, the Lord offered only a sheepish smile in return. Adagio's smile only continued to reach his eyes with every disapproving look from his mentor, he was mortified.
"You are serious about this?"
"Incredibly so."
"And what of your mother?
"She is set to retire anyhow, no?"
Krier sucked on his teeth to dismiss a scowl, the skin of his neck tugged taut as his temperature visibly began to rise. And sooner than his blood rushed to his face, his coloring returned as capitulation sunk in; Adagio had won him over. He pushed the stack of papers back within the Ser-to-be's arms, and turned on his heel to return to his quarters. Adagio von Rolanthe's name would return to him on a list, he thought, and whatever the list may be, it could not concern the mentor any further.
***
Unbeknownst to the men, only two months following Lord von Rolanthe's departure to the Crown Isle, his mother would fall to her demise into a crude and simple trap. She had been ensnared by a coven of Vintgast sanguine, the very bloodline that tormented the Sarnan people for so long. Krier would see Adagio again, but only twice. The funeral of his late confidant Countess Cordelia von Rolanthe, and again at the investiture of Count von Rolanthe himself.
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