"In the grand scheme of things, I should not have had her killed. All the same, I now reap what I sow." - King Jaap-Jan Biljvank III on the assassination of Empress Sun Bian, Dowager Queen of the Sun Dynasty while on his death bed, struck with the Red Dragon's Grip 302 PR

The Empress Jolijn made her way into the command tent. After two successive raids, the Queen called for a meeting. It had been her understanding that the siege had been doing well, and that, at any moment, they would break through the gates and assault the city. Yet, Prince Mathias did nothing. Furious with her uncle by marriage, the young queen brought together the chief commanders of the main Desravank forces. Standing around the center table, in order from left to right was the Duke Yves Hemramoux. The Queen knew very little about the duke; she knew of his father's death at the hands of the very same assailants who assassinated her father as well, she knew he was younger and had several younger siblings. He was the fifth Yves, if memory and reading served her correctly, as it often did. Next to him stood someone who she had met very recently, with the very first of their meetings having not been rooted in the corporeal, but rather was a vision in a fugue state of a woman screaming, balling, and wailing on her knees beside the bodies of two older men. Both of whom she loved dearly, and with whom she had several children: The Duchess Emilie LuRene, The Duchess Renangers. A fiery woman, similar to the queen with her lust for revenge against Thierry and those other conspirators who brought about the death of her loved ones. Admittedly, beyond the vision and knowledge of what drove her, she knew very little about the woman or her family. They were lumberjacks, from what she could recall. Wood, timber, strong pine and cedar was the primary trade of Renangers. Beside her was an older man who, for reasons the queen did not yet fully understand, she felt a resigned loathing towards. The very look of the man made her skin crawl. This was, of course, Prince Guillaume Desramaux. Beside him was the younger Prince Mathi, and beside him and directly across from Queen Jolijn was Mathi's father and the head commander of the main Desravank forces, Prince Mathias Desramaux. To his right stood a duke whom the empress did not recognize at first, for they never did make formal acquaintance at the wedding and his hair had been done up more then too. The tall, long haired, and goateed man was presumably the Duke D'Aurrennes based purely by the crimson and carnation colors he bore on his gambeson. Right of him stood Count Beauves Lefeuvre, recognizable by his boisterous smile which must always exude a lackadaisical confidence. To the immediate left of the young queen was Priest Volka, and to her right was Larynwy.

The tent was silent. None of them knew exactly why they had been summoned, simply that their queen and empress had called upon them - and being loyal and diligent vassals, they answered her call. After a brief moment of silence, Duchess Emilie spoke the first words.

"Empress Jolijn, I must say it is pleasing to have you here in our siege camp, and I very much look forward to this meeting of assuredly great import. We have all gathered post haste."

"Quite right Duchess, quite right. As you all are aware, the reason for my coming to this siege camp, along with my cousin by marriage and confidant Prince Mathi, was because messages were slow, very slow. I was tired of sitting away in a far away palace while my people fought and died for me. If I am not willing to be present while they did this, then what kind of a queen am I?" There were slight nods of agreement and admiration from around the room. Mathias did not move. The Empress Jolijn continued.

"The immediate reasoning for this council, of which I suspect you have had many," there were a few nods of agreement followed by a few scowled grunts confirming this for the queen. "While I am greatly impressed by the swift and cunning victory against Duke Lars Van Niljveld II, which I understand is already being referred to as the Battle of the King's Road by Auris. I, however, must now question your current tactics." The attention of the nobles in the room, while remaining upon their liege lord, clearly shifted just away from her so as to avoid eye contact. Duke Yves, notably, returned his eyes to meet his queen's as he responded.

"May I ask my queen to elaborate? I am afraid I, well, I will admit that I have not been taking the greatest interest in leadership at this junction. I have been spending my time training my soldiers, but of course am ready to take lead when it is demanded of me. But, grand plans have never been my forte." Fleury Aurrea, pulling back his luscious locks, was the next to speak.

"Perhaps our queen is about to get to that point, Yves? Please, my Queen, continue for us." A smile with a mixture of ambivalence and falsehood coated the older duke's face - yet it still brought about a smoothing tone to his words. Tempted to prod his mind, the queen thought better and continued on with her speech.

"I am not a military commander. I have never led an army. I have never even played at such games that teach things like strategy and tactics. But, I am also not an idiot. I am well read, and because of this I know the fortifications of Pelaresse, thanks to their descriptions in the retellings of Prince Jean's assault forty years ago. I also know our numbers, and that we have siege equipment constructed and ready for usage." The queen could sense, without the need to pry further, that the two older princes had grown quite uncomfortable in their anticipation for what more she would have to say.

"So, my question is, and I reiterate that I am not a tactician, why are we still simply besieging the city? We have the means to burst through their walls, why have we not done so yet?" There was no response from the now blank and slightly paler noble faces before her. "Any of you may answer the question."

Prince Mathias looked to his left, and then his right, and seemed to realize that all eyes were on him. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"You are right, Empress Jolijn. You are not a tactician. You are not studied in strategy. If you had been, you would not be here in the first place. But, I have made my feelings on that matter well known already and I see no point in attempting to move a brick wall with words alone. So, instead, let us discuss the topic you have brought to our attention. This is true. As it stands we have three battering rams outfitted with wheels, swinging arms, and some upward protection. We also have built five siege towers, seventeen ladders, and two trebuchets. I am hesitant to utilize the trebuchets as these walls are well built, and I would like to not destroy what will continue to be a city under your vassalage once we have retaken it. This is something my queen would agree with, yes? It is best, while we are fighting rebels, that we recognize they are and will once again be our people, and as such we find it best to not destroy them outright. Can my queen agree to this statement?"

"But of course, uncle."

"Furthermore, through experience - not my personal experience, but the experience of generations of Desramaux - the citizens of Pelaresse are loyal to the Pelariaux through and through. They will march into the streets to lay down their lives before we even break through to the secondary walls. The only reason my uncle, Prince Jean, was able to stop the people from fighting was because he had captured the duke, Guyard's father. Though, I am sure your books were accurate in that description of the events of the rebellion as well. Guyard, no doubt, will have learned from his father's mistakes and will stay far from the vanguard. In fact, if the stories I have heard of him are true, he is one of the greatest marksmen in the empire. As such, he is likely to join his people upon the battlements and help them rain hellfire from above."

"Yes, my books are very accurate, informing me also of House Pelariaux and that their people are renowned for their falconry and archery skills. It is most impressive. However, you have failed to answer my question. Why are we not bursting through the gates? As you have said, we have the siege equipment. Very well, we have built the trebuchets but will only use them if in dire straits. What of the siege towers and ladders? What of the battering rams? Are they to sit there and rot as well? We are in the throws of Spring and Summer approaches, torrential rains will be upon us."

"We are planning to starve them out. By our estimates, there are between one and four thousand trained and equipped levy; more then likely, they are primarily archers. That, of course, is no match against our ninety-two thousand. But, the people are also armed, as I said, and they will fight back. Most recent estimates put the total population within the city walls at fifteen thousand people, possibly more. Not all of them will be able and willing to fight, but we can estimate at least three quarters of them will fight against us. By my counting, that is between ten and twelve thousand, possibly more. Again, a relatively small number compared to our ninety-two thousand, but, when we are fighting in the streets, when we are pushing through alley ways in a city that we know but is not our home, they will have the advantage. If they also have strength mixed with their knowledge and will power to fight for their homes and city, our armies are matched."

"I see." The Empress looked over to Priest Volka and thought to them.

"He brings up a good point."

"Yes, but you are the queen, his Empress. If you command him to break down the walls, he will do as you say."

"I am not so certain of that."

"There is only one way to know for sure, your Highness."

"You know you do not have to call me that."

"I do, but I also know that you could use the reminder of you are, and who you have become. You are not just a little princess anymore, Jolijn. You rule an Empire. And on top of that all, you have the gift of the ziend." Empress Jolijn pursed her lips and returned her gaze to meet that of Prince Mathias.

"Well, Prince Mathias, you bring up many valid arguments. It makes sense, of course, being such a skilled tactician as you are. But - " Jolijn paused suddenly as a chill ran down the length of her back as she shifted her eyes to those of Prince Guillaume. That resigned loathing then began to unconsciously crawl out of her and into his mind. She dug deeper and deeper. She know she knew something, something that could have stopped this. Why did he feel so much guilt? What did he do? What did he not do? She dug deeper and deeper and, without realizing it, her eyes flashed purple. Priest Volka placed her hand on the queens left shoulder as her vassals looked on in confusion and perhaps fear. Fleury backed away slightly. Guillaume was frozen in place, his eyes locked on with his queens, and then she found it. She found what it was, his secret, his source of contrition. Unconsciously, Jolijn gripped the table and, with the force of her ziend, snapped it in twain. The circle of nobles jumped away, the crashing of one half of the table to the ground snapped her back to reality. One half of the table lay on the floor at the feet of her vassals, while the other remained stationary thanks to the craftsmanship of whomever built the central spires which the table stood upon. They all looked around at one another and then, slowly, one by one at first, they all turned their eyes to her.

"What, by all of the gods, was that?" Fleury, in his most eloquent of speech, spoke what all others were most likely thinking. Before Jolijn could find an answer, Mathi spoke up.

"Could have been anything, surely. A-a-a faulty table, all of us leaning on it. I could have sworn I had heard some creaking earlier and it must have - have, uh buckled under our weight. We really should invest in sturdier furniture. You never know what might happen." Awkward glances, none of which seemed to by Mathi's explanation but which seemed ready to accept it, continued around the room from one person to the next. Jolijn's eyes were still fixated on that of Guillaume.

"You knew." she spoke in a low, seething voice which was not her own.

"W-w-what?" Guillaume sputtered out his response, glancing quickly around the room for support.

"You knew. All this time you knew, and you did nothing to stop it." 

"I-I-I am afraid I-uh do n-not know what y-you... w-w-what my queen - what my Empress is talking about." The old prince began fidgeting with his hands, his face twitching with each word.

"You knew of the plot. You knew! That your cousin, and your brother, and the Duchess Hekket, and all of them! That they were plotting an attack at the wedding. You, knew!" Very quickly the room turned, Yves leaping to his feet to grab Guillaume by the shoulders to hold him back.

"W-wait a minute! This, this is absurd! What are you talking about?" The Duchess LuRene, who never went anywhere without her weapon, drew her axe and held the blade to the throat of the old prince.

"No no no no no no... This-this is - I do not know what my queen speaks of." Mathias stepped in, shoving Emilie away.

"This is nonsense! Everyone out!" All turned to Mathias, and then to Jolijn, who gave no response. Priest Volka gave a slight nod and gestured to exit. Slowly, and with several glances back to those still within, the Dukes and Duchess all exited the tent.

"You will forget what you saw today. Do you understand?" Mathias said as the three left, each one giving a single nod of their head, eyes struck with confusion. Emilie gave one final glower to Guillaume before exiting.

"Mathi get out."

"But father - "

"Get out!" After another confirmation from Priest Volka, the young prince bowed and left. No one spoke for a long time. Mathias broke the silence with a deep sigh, followed by words.

"Guillaume, tell your Queen what you knew." Snapping out of his state of shock, the old prince managed to speak again.

"I-I-I-I was privy to-to some information as a guest, at some meetings. At which, we discussed the future of the Desramaux. And-and... Prince Thierry, at the last I attended, had mentioned - had implied - something, something terrible. And I, I would not have it, I would not hear it, and I - I stormed out. I made my position quite clear."

"And what was he implying, Guillaume?" Jolijn spoke again with the same eerie cadence as before.

"He-he was implying... the murder, of-of, you, and-and... Phillipe." Silence once again engulfed the tent for a moment.

"And you said nothing?" Tears began to well up in the young queen's eyes.

"I-I. I did not think, I did not know - I - I... please forgive me. Please forgive me!" Tears now began to stream down the old princes face. He then stumbled forward, falling to his knees as he gripped the dress of his queen.

"Get up. Get up!" Mathias gripped his cousin by the back of the collar and hoisted up.

"Stop sniffling, stop groveling." Throwing his cousin away slightly, Mathias looked back to his queen.

"There, are you happy?"

"No I am not happy. This man is responsible for all that has occurred, the very reason we are where we are now."

"I know."

"You knew?" Jolijn's eyes once again flashed purple.

"I only just recently learned of this myself. What I would like to know, now, is how did you know?"

"When I feel you have a right to that information, Prince Mathias, I will inform you of it. But needless to say, I was given some information, and I finally put it all together. Now I have half a mind to order you executed, Prince Guillaume."

"Please! Please no!" The old prince once again went to fall to his knees, only to be stopped by the stiff arm of his cousin. A vain attempt to keep some dignity amongst the princes.

"He is not a traitor, your highness. He is just a fool."

"Just a fool. Just, a fool. What a convenient excuse that is for those who so willfully ignore the evils which surround them, allowing them to perpetuate in ad nauseum. What we so often forget about the fool, though, is that they are just as culpable as those committing the atrocities. The only difference, is that the fool can redeem themselves." Empress Jolijn let out a deep sigh, her eyes making their way to take in all that was the glory of Prince Guillaume Desramaux. Sniveling, uneven breathing through a snot filled nose, and enough salty liquid pouring from his eyes to fill a bay.

"What is my empress suggesting?" Mathias said.

"Your empress is not suggesting anything. Willful ignorance is just as dangerous as the act itself. The fool plays there part, similar to that of the sycophant."

"I promise you, my queen, I will make this right. I fight with my cousin to make this right." The fool spoke through a quivering voice.

"I trust that you do, Guillaume, for your sake. Prince Mathias, I am tired of this siege camp. Push forward." With that, the Empress Jolijn Desravank made her will known.

The cold Spring air, for which the old prince had already seen too many, had caused his joints to ache and radiate pain. Clad in his brigandine tabard with a golden rose on a black field. Upon his head sat a bascinet, with a chain shirt laying between the brigandine and leather gambeson. On his back was a heater shield bearing the same crest as his tabard, and on his side was the dreaded cudgel known as a morning star. The sun had not yet risen, with Guillaume reasoning it was around four in the morning given the position of the second moon and lack of sun on the horizon. Positioned with him was four squadrons of hand selected soldiers from the night before. Each possessed a ladder, with which they were slowly pressing against the walls to Pelaresse. Digging the bases into the cold earth, the shield bearers crept and crawled their way up the ladders, their old prince in the lead. They had positioned their ladders just below the tops of the battlements so as to avoid detection from the otherwise unaware patrol - hopefully. It had been well documented in the time of the siege that very early in the morning, a few hours before the sun was in the air, that those on guard duty would tend to focus less on their tasks at hand. Perhaps they were sleeping, perhaps they were drunk, perhaps they were playing games; whatever was preoccupying them, it had been noted that there was a certain lack of pacing soldiers upon the walls of Pelaresse at this hour.

Taking advantage of the laziness, or contentedness, of the enemy archers, Prince Guillaume made his way onto the battlements with one-hundred soldiers. All of them were levy, save one, a small baron by the name of Gauthier de Gauchez whose crest was a white daisy on a field of brown. With relative ease, the one-hundred soldiers were able to make their way high upon the battlements - now this was where the fun would begin. The old prince gritted his teeth. We will not need battering rams, he thought to himself, if the gates are wide open. Slowly, and with great purpose, they made their way to the gatehouse. Two squadrons formed barriers at each door frame, while the old man, assisted by the Baron and several other soldiers began to crank the doors open.

It took a surprising amount of time for the horns to begin to blow. A deft response was quick, though, once the horns did begin to blow, as the Pelariaux soldiers rushed the gatehouse, attempting to break through the shields blocking their path. Arrows began to fly, but all they were able to strike was wood painted gold and black. Once what felt like an eternity had passed, with shields filled to the brim with arrow heads, the gates swung fully open. It was then the old prince, with horn in hand, extended his torso out of the front window over the gate and blew with all of his might. A fifth squadron, which was prepared for this, pulled out their horns as well and blew the call for battle. Within moments, squadron after squadron, knight after knight, rushed to don their gear and charge the wide open gates of the first walls of the mighty city of Pelaresse.

The fighting was initially slow as the soldiers of the enemy began to wake to the sounds of screams and the clashing of steal. They made quick work of abandoning the first walls and made their way for the secondary. What felt like thousands of arrows began to rained down from the parapets as more and more soldiers of the Desravank Empire poured in. However, by the time that the sun had passed the horizon, it was no longer the deathly accurate archers of the Pelariaux that was the greatest threat, but now, rather, the people of Pelaresse.

Bursting forth from their homes, with all sorts of weapons in hand, the young and old of the city bore down on the soldiers, flanking them on all sides as they were forced to stick to the narrow passageways of the city streets. Chaos broke the Desravank momentum. No longer were they orderly groups of soldiers carving their way to the secondary gate; it had become every person for themselves. The fighting was fierce, deadly, and unforgiving. A woman clad in nothing but an apron wielding a cleaver soon met the business end of the old princes weapon of choice, her face crushed and pierced under its weight. Who was she? He thought to himself, perhaps a mother. Certainly a daughter. Perhaps a wife. Based on her attire and weapon of choice, she could have been a chef, or a butcher. Whomever she was, she was no more. The old princes thoughts were cut short, though, as more citizens charged. Daggers, butchers knives, some with maces, and many hatchets rushed forward into the lines of spear holding black and gold.

Guillaume's gut began to twist and turn as he watched as ordinary people - not drafted, not trained, wearing nothing but the sheer clothes on their back - died by spear, by axe, hatchet, and morning star. What were they dying for? What were they fighting for? Where was their duke, their King as they now called him. Was he fighting for them? Soon, the old prince felt pity get replaced with hatred. You idiots, you fools! How can you die so easily? Why do you let yourselves die so easily? Why do you fight? Two old maids ran forward carrying a cauldron. Hoisting it high in the air, they cascaded out its molten contents as boiling water rained down upon the Desravank levy. Screams of pain echoed out, as steam rose high into the air as the skin of the victims bubbled and burst, sending several writhing to the ground. Was this what his father had to deal with? Was this the fighting, the glorious fighting, the glorious war and conquest of Pelaresse that his father so nobly - but was it noble? Was it noble? It did not matter anymore. The sooner it was done with, the sooner they could carry on. The sooner this blood bath could end.

Frantically he turned and found the Baron de Gauchez.

"Gauther."

"Yes my lord?"

"We are nearing the second get. We need to push through. This needs to end today!"

"Yes my lord!"

"Get the battering rams. All three. I want them all manned. One at the gate and two at the sides."

"At the sides, sir?"

"If we have to break a crack in the wall to get through we will do it, I do not care. Bring the ladders, we need to get through the second wall! Look around you, Gauther. We are just slaughtering them" Baron de Gauchez's lip quivered as he glanced about and responded.

"No, my lord, we are slaughtering each other."

Turning around, it had finally dawned upon the prince that, while their enemy was nothing more than slightly armed civilians, they fought with the ferocity of tens of thousands. For every blood stained corpse of a civilian, there were four stabbed, beaten, and chopped bodies of a Desravank levy, with so many of them steaming from their burns. Mathias was right. These people know their city far better then they do. Ambushes were constant. This was not a pitched battle, this was guerilla warfare, and they were surrounded. After another hour of carnage and caving in the head of what could only be the head of a sixteen year old boy, Prince Guillaume Desramaux heard the approach of the battering rams. The time was now. This ends today!

The sun was high in the sky. Arrows plummeted down from above. Acting quickly, the shield bearers formed testudo around those baring the rams. This did not stop countless from falling, though, as projectiles pierced their clavicles, necks, and heads. Unerring aim was once again their greatest foe. Hearing a scream from an all too familiar voice, Guillaume turned to see the Baron de Gauchez clutching his throat with blood soaked hands, two arrows protruding out from his jugular. This needed to end. This needed to end today, this has to end today. This all needed to end. After all, it was all his fault, was it not? He could have stopped this, and now, he would.

The first ram fell short of its intended target, those around it forced to protect themselves as they gave up on their approach to the gate. The second ram, however, found purchase roughly one hundred yards away from the gate, in a small nook slightly out of sight from those on the tops of the walls. Wasting no time, they struck at the walls again and again, a team of twenty running back some thirty paces and then rushing with all of their might, all the while their companions held the downpour of arrows at bay. Bloody battle taking place around them, Prince Guillaume rushed to take the place of a fallen on the right side of the siege weapon. Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike! Again, and again, and again, and again they hit the walls. Then, it finally happened. It started out small, a minuscule crack that grew and grew until it was a cavernous break ready to shatter at any moment. One more. One more. One more! ONE MORE! A collage of brick and mortar exploded out the other side of the wall, as the old prince eagerly leapt to lead his soldiers through the opening once more. Standing proudly on the shattered wall, he shouted:

"We have broken through soldiers! Go on! Give them hell!"

Pride coursed through his veins. The heft from his morning star was lighter then a feather as he raced forward, continuing the tare down the skulls of any bearing the colors of gold and azure who crossed his path. It was exhilarating, and he felt exonerated. More and more Desravank soldiers poured in through the breach in the wall, making their way passed the second walls. The few Pelariaux soldiers that were there were no match for the ferocity of the spears and hatchets carving their way to third and final wall. Hoisting his weapon high above his head once more, standing on the steps which led to the final gate, the final barricade and final threshold to redemption and vengeance. Not just for the dread wedding, but for that of his uncle several years prior - vindication was at hand.

"Do not stop now! We are not going to let a few more planks of wood stop us now, are we?"

"NOOOO!" An uproar reverberated out from the levy, shaking the walls before them. The gatehouse quaked in the eyes of the black and gold before it.

Suddenly, Guillaume felt a strange sensation. The feeling of intense joy, of having righted his wrongs, had begun to fade and be overcome with that of frailty, fatigue, and dizziness. A sharp pain began coursing through his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words could form, simply gurgles. Dropping his morning star from above his head, the old prince nearly missed himself. A gauntlet clasped around the arrow head that now protruded from his thorax. Prince Guillaume Desramaux collapsed, his eyes staring up to the heavens.

Prince Mathias called a full retreat. There was a quick attempt to retrieve the body, but, after ten more soldiers fell in rapid succession the idea was abandoned. The entire third wall was filled to the brim with archers, soldiers and citizens alike. As they made their final retreat, Prince Mathias looked up at the enemy ahead. Standing there, high upon the parapet, longbow in hand, and quiver at his side was self-appointed king, Guyard Pelariaux. The old prince watched as the bow string was released. Fletching fluttered through the air. Stepping to the side, the arrow clanged and shattered on the stone wall beside him, stone that moments ago would have been splattered with his blood. You may claim one prince today, Guyard. But tomorrow, we claim a king.

Banners flew wildly in the wind of the mid-afternoon sun. A field of gold and black, silver and white, azure and white. Mixed within these primary banners, of course, were the crests of the hundreds of minor nobles, the vassals to the King Rikkert Biljvank and his chief lieutenants. Whether they be baron or count, the levies raised their local liege lords banners high. The forces were gathered just to the south of the city of Niljden, population some fifteen thousand. Directly beyond the walls of this urban center was an army of now one-hundred-twenty thousand soldiers. Twenty-five thousand stood proudly under the colors of House Zelderloo, another twenty-thousand were those of House Ruuding, another thirty-thousand under that of House Biljvank, fifteen-thousand bore the dog crest of House Mathink; though the soldiers of House Mathink were there begrudgingly, these hounds of war would fight for their conqueror. The remaining thirty-thousand were a mixture of those from House Van Niljveld, House Lutherloo, and House Heerma. Despite their heavy losses on the journey down, the five-thousand levy of Heerzijl were ready and willing to draw the blood of their king's enemies. House Lutherloo had managed to muster up fifteen-thousand levy; the count was a reclusive man who owed his entire position to that of Lars Van Niljveld II having been granted his title and the lands of the County of Lutherloo by the late duke some twenty-five years ago. The remaining ten-thousand were the survivors of Lars II's failed endeavor towards Renangers. Soon, they would all march.

Rikkert and his armies had arrived just two days prior. Thierry fought back against the horror that shuddered down his spine when he first saw the approaching banners. So many, so many soldiers ready and willing to fight to the death for their king; King Rikkert Biljvank. While the armies had arrived two days ago, the two kings had not met face to face until this very moment. In fact, this was their first time ever meeting, their conspiracy being entirely brought about under the careful control of the Dowager Mother, Duchess Hekket Zelderloo. It was at this time the spindly old woman sat in the background of the parlor at Niljden. She sipped her third glass of amethyst wine and continued to look around, eyes meeting portraits of the former nobles who used to grace these very halls. Thierry turned his attention away from the aging duchess and focused instead upon her son, her favorite son. This was something the old king knew far too well; parents always claim to never have favorites. But, it was always so obvious who they did favor, especially when dealing with royals. King Thierry was not supposed to inherit, he had been one of the spares, the first spare, but a spare non the less. Francois was to inherit, and so he did. Look where that brought us, the old king thought to himself. A snarl briefly eclipsed the otherwise stern look upon his face. Pulling out his pipe, King Thierry Desramaux took a moment to smoke before the afternoons much needed dialogues would commence.

"Are we all gathered then?" The old king, standing by the hearth, looked around the room. Standing to his right, was King Rikkert Biljvank. The Biljvank kings attire was regal in nature, but certainly still princely - golden tunic with black roses emblazoned across the torso, sharp cavalry boots extending up to his knees with a fresh coat of polish. Despite his princely appearance, he still had the look of the road about him. Rikkert's hair was quite long and, though it was combed back, he clearly was not sued to the style, constantly pulling it back, seeming to lack the knowledge that he could tie it up and out of the way. His beard, judging by the length, was something he had grown during his travels from Diependam to now. Due to the haste with which he drove his army back to Niljden, no doubt many were without the time to regularly tend to their regular maintenance. The old prince ran a finger across his mustache, which was trimmed daily no matter where he was. What kind of a king can not care about their own appearance? 

Rikkert sipped upon a glass of ice brandy. Just passed him, seated in front of the hearth, was the Duke Dirk-Jan in his usual attire, green and azure tunic, a golden chain necklace hung around his collar and draped down to his chest. He was not drinking, but was instead rolling himself a cofferette. Just passed the duke was another face the king had not seen before. Duke... Martien? Yes, that sounded right. Duke Martien of House Ruuding; a cruel looking gentleman with long black hair that was allowed to sit upon his shoulders and drape just below his chest. He was clean shaven with eyes of piercing darkness and a tunic colored entirely azure with a white "wild man" on his chest. Ah yes, House Ruuding, I have read about your sorts. The exploits of House Ruuding had become notorious to the Desramaux Dynasty during the Pelariaux-Van Niljveld Joint Rebellion between 300 and 305 P.R. During this conflict, the brutality of the Biljvank Kingdom came to light as the two pairs of allied forces fought one another. The wild men of House Ruuding, burning down villages, slaughtering, raping, and robbing. Tamed, but Wild, Thierry recalled was their house motto, a fitting set of words for the guard dog of the Biljvanks. Passed Martien was the Duke Vaars Zelderloo the, eighth? Ninth? Twelfth? It did not really matter, they were all named Vaars. Thierry glanced back and forth between Vaars and his aunt; the resemblance was certainly there. However, the duke held a sheepish slouch upon his shoulders as he sat - this was no Silver Dragon, nothing like the great dame behind him. Rather, he was but a wyrmling, following in the footsteps of a giant rose, or perhaps hiding behind it. Finally, upon the furthest end of the couch, was the newest addition to the vassals of King Rikkert, the Duchess Mathieden. Thierry had read the reports, the story of the Battle of Mathieden and the duel between Rikkert and Magnus. It was a well fought battle on both sides, and frankly she should count herself lucky to still breathe and hold her titles. The old king made a note not to direct questions to her. She may be a vassal now, but the moment Rikkert lets up his blade she will release her dogs again, of this Thierry was certain.

"Well then, we have gathered."

"Astute observation there, Thierry." Dirk-Jan gave a smirk as he lit his cofferette.

"What are our plans?" Asked the Duchess Mathieden.

"I thought it was simple," Rikkert stood up straight, took a sip from his glass, and addressed the room.

"We have an army of one-hundred-twenty thousand. Pardon me, one-hundred-twenty-two thousand. I could not help but notice the elven mercenaries we had added to our venture. Thierry, I understand those are yours?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. The Dynasty of the Sun have impeccable warriors. A small force of them, well, we may as well say we number two-hundred thousand." Rikkert shot a grin to the old king, who felt a flush of embarrassment rush through his body.

"I take it you will be leading them, then?"

"That was the plan, yes."

"Very good. I naturally will lead the Biljvank forces combined with those from Vaars and Martien, House Ruuding having the honor of making up the vanguard. Eefje will march behind us with her loyal soldiers from Mathieden." Thierry noticed the expression Rikkert gave to his loyal vassal as he said this. While his tone was kept even, his eyes told the story of what would happen should she even think of betraying him. The Biljvank King continued.

"Dirk-Jan will lead the combined forces from Niljden, Lutherloo, and Heerzijl while - "

"I am afraid that is very off the mark, dear Rikkert." The young duke interrupted to the shock of all in the room.

"And, why is that?"

"My days of fighting are behind me. While I still consider myself an excellent strategic mind baring the knowledge of battle gained through experience, I would very much like to remain lord of my lands longer than my dear departed brother and father. I am therefore sending my cousin, Lowie, in my stead."

"Lowie?" Questioned Thierry.

"What of your uncle and other cousin? Your uncle Elco was a brilliant swordsman from what I can recall." Rikkert amazed Thierry by how quickly he recovered from the insult of having been interrupted by a vassal.

"I have written House Desramaux, forgive me, to Desramaux City, the castle there, and the would-be-rulers who currently reside within. I heard nothing for quite sometime, and only just recently got word back from a Prince Renault. Does that name ring a bell to you, Thierry?"

"Prince Renault responded?"

"You seem surprised."

"I am. He is my cousins child who is - well useless."

"How is that?" Rikkert inquired.

"He never had use of his legs."

"That does not make him useless, how is his mind?"

"What does it matter? If he cannot get to where he is needed, it does not matter how good his mind is." There was awkward silence from the rest of the room, King Rikkert turning back to Dirk-Jan to encourage him to quickly respond so that they might move on.

"Well, anyways. Involving my uncle and cousin, I have been informed that they are being well treated and that it would bring great delight to their hearts to release them back home. All I would have to do to make this happen would be to bend the knee to King Phillipe and Queen Jolijn Desravank. Naturally, I did not respond."

"Are you not afraid they will be killed?" Rikkert asked.

"Of course I am, but, well, what is one more dead Van Niljveld?" Taking an inhalation from his cofferette, the young duke clouded his face with smoke, a shifting grin poking through as he brought its focus to Rikkert and then Thierry. The statement seemed to perturb the Biljvank King.

"We understand you are upset, what with the majority of the sacrifices thus far having been from your family. But I promise you, your father and brother will not die in vain."

"Thank you, Rikkert. I admit I do find some comfort in that."

"Have we received any word from Pelaresse?" Thierry perked up at the other kings question.

"Yes, we have actually. The siege is not going well. Claude has - my cousin, Prince Claude. He has led several raids against the siege camp, all of them having proved unsuccessful, his forces slowly dwindling along the way. The Duke..." Thierry now spoke through gritted teeth. "King, I mean King Guyard has written my cousin to abandon his goals and wait at Jacquignon for further instruction."

"Do we know his numbers?" The flush of embarrassment once again came over the old king as Rikkert turned and asked this.

"When the siege first began he numbered thirty-four thousand. I understand he has allowed that number to shrink to twenty-two. My cousin was, a poor choice for leadership but more than likely the only choice at the time." Thierry watched as Rikkert chewed his thoughts for a moment before giving his response.

"That will make for a good expeditionary force, at least." Martien Ruuding stood after a large sip from his glass.

"How do you fail at raiding?" The wild man asked. So my thoughts on this man were correct. Thierry raised his right eyebrow.

"He had cavalry?" The duke continued his questioning.

"My understanding is that he did."

"Fascinating. He lost twelve-thousand soldiers from raids? And how many casualties did he inflict upon the enemy in turn?" Thierry looked down to his now cold pipe before glancing back to respond.

"We do not know." Martien chuckled at this.

"Well, if it is not at least twelve-thousand it will have all been for nothing."

"It does not matter." Rikkert interjected. "Their numbers do not matter. We will unite ourselves with Prince Claude and Count Jacques, break the siege ourselves, and chaise them back, all the way to Desramaux City."

"What of..." the entire room now turned their attention to the source of the low voice. The Duchess Hekket, staring into her glass, a surprisingly resigned aura about her.

"What of King Phillipe? And that whore, Nadine."

"I am not concerned for them, mother."

"I agree, there is no cause for concern. He is but a boy, he does not know how to lead an army." Thierry added to Rikkert's statement.

"I do not know about that. Lebatou and Licon fell quite easily."

"Lebatou and Licon fell because of the brilliance of Prince Thijn, Duchess Nadine, and Prince Hein." The old king disregarded all pretense of hiding his hatred for his nephew as he spoke; the very idea of the petulant prince being a competent leader filled his blood with fire.

"What?" Rikkert whirled his head to face Thierry.

"Your brother travels with the false king and his armies. I thought you knew this, Rikkert." Thierry watched as the countenance of the Biljvank King, which up until now had stood strong, slowly crumbled in on itself.

"Yes, of course. I had, I had assumed he was further from the battles. Regardless... um. Regardless. I am not concerned with King Phillipe. Thanks to the brilliance of Duke Martien, we have made contact with the Linten who will intercept the combined armies of Obbinkerloo and Diependam. Bull men, supported by the Duke and Duchess of Lebatou and Licon, who still swear their loyalty to House Pelariaux, will put a stop to the boy kings forces." King Thierry watched as the old duchess glanced up to face her favorite son now, a wide, diabolical grin across her face.

"Good. We will tear them apart from the inside out, save Pelaresse, and put down the foolish children who play pretend as Emperor and Empress." King Thierry moved his eyes about the room once more. There was a still resolve amongst them all. The time had come; finally, the time had come. They would put a swift end to this conflict, and then he will be formally crowned king. King of the Desramaux, King Thierry the Great, King Thierry the Savior.