Mud sprung into the air as sturdy hooves connected with the half-cobbled road, the wet, soggy dirt flinging to either side of the path, painting the flora and heathland canvas synonymously, causing a line of abstract paintings to trail behind the party of horses and riders as they traversed the beaten path. In the early morning like this, grey, misty fog hung with moisture low above the ground, clouding the grazing sheep and making it a challenge for even the best of eyes to see what lies ahead. The sun could barely peek over the clouds today, no more than they could the dense fog that permeated around the travelers. Adversely, it did little to hide the bright red banners that fluttered and recoiled with each gallop smacking into the mud, those woven cloths bearing a sigil of the Hinterlandish people, its black wings more unmistakable than the crown that laid around the woven raven's neck. Even through that fog, the townsfolk whose daily view was heather and sheeps could tell who was coming, the King Revain himself was trotting east with his men, directly to Viansheid Keep.
A withered, tired old Leutz man woke up that morning to the sounds of the moorland sheep making their fuss, and woke up smacking at the bugs landing occasionally on his stick skin. "Leave me widah' open overnight. Can't git much more an idiot th'n tha'." He spoke with a thick, backwoods accent, a common one out this far in the country of Brissiaud. Everything about him lacked the chivalry and sophistication of those back in Vieux-Provence. Humid air swirled about him, the thickness of the moisture giving almost a choking-like sensation to the poor folks working the Keep that monochrome morning. No orange rays of light shone into the main hall as he opened the doors of the keep, only more fog and bugs greeting him this morning, though he would have preferred the skulduggery maidservant waiting for him outside the door if you asked him. His wrinkled, liver spotted hands gripped the railing of the steps, helping him up the staircase to reach the battlements facing west, right over the gate. Not a damned person in the keep wanted his job. Bugs picked at the skin all day. If it was summer, you were sweating in every crack and crevice you had, Brissiaud gets humid like that in those months. If it was winter, you were piled up with furs and praying to the Spirit that Nurse Friehda wouldn't have to severe your fingers from frostbite. Though he stayed his post, he earned his money, and enjoyed a sense of job security and consistency nobody else could. Everything about today was consistent, and he loved every humid, foggy minute of it. That was, until the sound of galloping reached his elderly ears, making his bushy white eyebrows furrow in confusion. Like a gopher, he peeked over the battlements, not being able to make out the people who stayed atop their horses outside the gate to the keep. "Wha' ya' be wantin'? We gots nah food ta' hand out so bes' be leavin', righ'?" He asked with a snarky chuckle, as surprising as it was to see people out here at the gate, it wasn't completely uncommon for beggars or hedge knights to come around asking for hand-outs. "Felix you old shit. Open the bloody gates before I finally fire you." The voice that rang back was unmistakable. The elderly man scrambled, dropping his porridge off his lap as he stammered back, "Y-Your Royal Highness! We. We weren't expecting you until Brƻlantfest! I. I'll get the gate!" With that, the elderly man scurried off to the gatehouse, cursing under his breath.
Percival's horse galloped up in the lead, flanked by four retainers, and a bannerman at the rear, kicking up mud and crushed grass into the air as they entered into the courtyard. The middle aged firebrand got a look around the misty, dull courtyard. Grass was patchy and kicked up in most places, it not being able to properly stay grown in the muddy courtyard, add on top horses entering and leaving the area, it doesn't leave much left. Cracked and dull-green vines clung lifelessly to the walls of the square, as dead and untended as the rest of the castle flora, and for good reason. No sane Revain ever chose to invest in gardeners here, a fool's gambit at best to try and sculpt something out of the depressing landscape in the moorlands. A solemn sigh emitted from the King's mouth, the expelled air dispersing some thick fog from away from his face for a moment, right up before he and his men dismounted their horses. A gloved hand reached behind his head, moving up towards the crown of his head, and back down, quickly in a nervous, rubbing like manner as Percy made way to one of the keep's servants, "Where is he."
The doors quietly creaked open to the largest of the cramped keep's rooms, shining a minutia of dull light into the completely unlit room. Open opening the oaken entryway, the broad-shouldered king got a view of the stone prison of a room. Every curtain was drawn, the walls lacked any semblance of life with the candles and torches unlit. It was a four-walled rectangle of simply. Nothing. Grey, lifeless, nothingness. It was if light refused to touch this spot, refused to allow happiness to enter through the creaking doors that guarded the room like a hellish portal. Percival's gray-blue eyes settled on the one living thing in the room, other than himself, and it looked anything but. He was like the furniture. A statue, a table, or even a rag that someone left on the bed and just. Forgot to pick up. The king could have sworn if he looked close enough, there would be dust on the man's forehead. His hunting boots quietly clapped against the squeaky, wooden floors, sending the dust on them to scatter each way it could find as the man walked to the other's bedside. He lowered himself down, into the wooden chair which diligently sat beside the other ginger. His gloved hand found the withered, pale one of his likeness, which was lying lifeless on the red blanket which kept the man from being cold, despite the heat of the summer. The touch of someone must have been a foreign feeling to the laying man, causing him to stir from his slumber as sunken, equally gray-blue eyes opened. A familiar, sensitive and almost lunatic smile worked its way onto the sick man's countenance, and he spoke with the saddest, groggiest, and yet somehow the happiest tone, "I've wondered when you'd visit.". Percy truly wondered, when the last time this man got to smile. For the first time since he was a boy, the King felt a weakness in himself, pulling at his heartstrings as his breathing seized up every few moments. He felt a wetness work itself up in the corners of his eyes, before seeing one or two drops of liquid land on the dusty ground underneath him. Hate. Percy hated himself for that. Those tears, that weakness, it ate at him, yet was undeniable. The King clutched the sick man's hand tightly, bringing it up to his lips before pressing them onto the back of the man's hand, a couple of silent tears landing on the pale wrist of the other. Finally, he broke the silence, and managed to choke out in a truly remorseful and apologetic voice.
A withered, tired old Leutz man woke up that morning to the sounds of the moorland sheep making their fuss, and woke up smacking at the bugs landing occasionally on his stick skin. "Leave me widah' open overnight. Can't git much more an idiot th'n tha'." He spoke with a thick, backwoods accent, a common one out this far in the country of Brissiaud. Everything about him lacked the chivalry and sophistication of those back in Vieux-Provence. Humid air swirled about him, the thickness of the moisture giving almost a choking-like sensation to the poor folks working the Keep that monochrome morning. No orange rays of light shone into the main hall as he opened the doors of the keep, only more fog and bugs greeting him this morning, though he would have preferred the skulduggery maidservant waiting for him outside the door if you asked him. His wrinkled, liver spotted hands gripped the railing of the steps, helping him up the staircase to reach the battlements facing west, right over the gate. Not a damned person in the keep wanted his job. Bugs picked at the skin all day. If it was summer, you were sweating in every crack and crevice you had, Brissiaud gets humid like that in those months. If it was winter, you were piled up with furs and praying to the Spirit that Nurse Friehda wouldn't have to severe your fingers from frostbite. Though he stayed his post, he earned his money, and enjoyed a sense of job security and consistency nobody else could. Everything about today was consistent, and he loved every humid, foggy minute of it. That was, until the sound of galloping reached his elderly ears, making his bushy white eyebrows furrow in confusion. Like a gopher, he peeked over the battlements, not being able to make out the people who stayed atop their horses outside the gate to the keep. "Wha' ya' be wantin'? We gots nah food ta' hand out so bes' be leavin', righ'?" He asked with a snarky chuckle, as surprising as it was to see people out here at the gate, it wasn't completely uncommon for beggars or hedge knights to come around asking for hand-outs. "Felix you old shit. Open the bloody gates before I finally fire you." The voice that rang back was unmistakable. The elderly man scrambled, dropping his porridge off his lap as he stammered back, "Y-Your Royal Highness! We. We weren't expecting you until Brƻlantfest! I. I'll get the gate!" With that, the elderly man scurried off to the gatehouse, cursing under his breath.
Percival's horse galloped up in the lead, flanked by four retainers, and a bannerman at the rear, kicking up mud and crushed grass into the air as they entered into the courtyard. The middle aged firebrand got a look around the misty, dull courtyard. Grass was patchy and kicked up in most places, it not being able to properly stay grown in the muddy courtyard, add on top horses entering and leaving the area, it doesn't leave much left. Cracked and dull-green vines clung lifelessly to the walls of the square, as dead and untended as the rest of the castle flora, and for good reason. No sane Revain ever chose to invest in gardeners here, a fool's gambit at best to try and sculpt something out of the depressing landscape in the moorlands. A solemn sigh emitted from the King's mouth, the expelled air dispersing some thick fog from away from his face for a moment, right up before he and his men dismounted their horses. A gloved hand reached behind his head, moving up towards the crown of his head, and back down, quickly in a nervous, rubbing like manner as Percy made way to one of the keep's servants, "Where is he."
The doors quietly creaked open to the largest of the cramped keep's rooms, shining a minutia of dull light into the completely unlit room. Open opening the oaken entryway, the broad-shouldered king got a view of the stone prison of a room. Every curtain was drawn, the walls lacked any semblance of life with the candles and torches unlit. It was a four-walled rectangle of simply. Nothing. Grey, lifeless, nothingness. It was if light refused to touch this spot, refused to allow happiness to enter through the creaking doors that guarded the room like a hellish portal. Percival's gray-blue eyes settled on the one living thing in the room, other than himself, and it looked anything but. He was like the furniture. A statue, a table, or even a rag that someone left on the bed and just. Forgot to pick up. The king could have sworn if he looked close enough, there would be dust on the man's forehead. His hunting boots quietly clapped against the squeaky, wooden floors, sending the dust on them to scatter each way it could find as the man walked to the other's bedside. He lowered himself down, into the wooden chair which diligently sat beside the other ginger. His gloved hand found the withered, pale one of his likeness, which was lying lifeless on the red blanket which kept the man from being cold, despite the heat of the summer. The touch of someone must have been a foreign feeling to the laying man, causing him to stir from his slumber as sunken, equally gray-blue eyes opened. A familiar, sensitive and almost lunatic smile worked its way onto the sick man's countenance, and he spoke with the saddest, groggiest, and yet somehow the happiest tone, "I've wondered when you'd visit.". Percy truly wondered, when the last time this man got to smile. For the first time since he was a boy, the King felt a weakness in himself, pulling at his heartstrings as his breathing seized up every few moments. He felt a wetness work itself up in the corners of his eyes, before seeing one or two drops of liquid land on the dusty ground underneath him. Hate. Percy hated himself for that. Those tears, that weakness, it ate at him, yet was undeniable. The King clutched the sick man's hand tightly, bringing it up to his lips before pressing them onto the back of the man's hand, a couple of silent tears landing on the pale wrist of the other. Finally, he broke the silence, and managed to choke out in a truly remorseful and apologetic voice.
"I'm sorry, brother."
