Magenhyld listened to old Zenfage’s clipped advice, her eyes worriedly fixed on her son. Blaive drooped his head and gave a short moan, and she did not need further convincing. She accepted Rollo’s wine goblet distractedly, as she nodded. Once Crispain spoke, she faced him and voiced her revised opinion.

“Actually, my Lord Duke, I will heed the words of your healer. If you would not mind sheltering him through the night, I will retrieve my Blaive at dawn tomorrow…” Still uneasy leaving her injured son and heir in less than familiar hands, she turned for her other son. She glanced once at the handsome knight Galeran was standing with. She heard his name spoken by the Outlander outside the tent. One brow twitched at the hint of insolence in his bow, and then she pulled her son over for what she wished to say to him.

“Galeran, send for my woman Yvonne. Stay with her here and be with your…” she trailed off, stopping at the sight of the wounded man limping into the tent. The moment he concluded his news, the goblet, which she was never entirely mindful that she was holding, slipped out of her sweaty hands. The spilled wine pooled with what traces of blood were on the ground.

“Bazil and Placev,” she repeated under her breath, the features of her face widening with unguarded surprise. She took a step forward towards the entry of the tent, her boot bumping the chalice that she had dropped.

“A glass of wine, I owe you. Along with the rescue of my son,” she said to Crispain, turning to look him more fully in the face. Her eyes carried a trace guilt, for being startled by his disfigurement when she first saw him. “Surely you will accompany me to… to appraise this altercation between the Count and Baron.” She struggled for the words, her mouth flinching with dread.

She stepped over the wine and goblet and exited the tent, looking back once over her shoulder to bid a hurried adieu to her children. Then, in the company of Duke Crispain, she came to the crowd of weapon-ready nobles and warriors.

“Let us through,” she announced sharply, prodding the few gatherers that would not part automatically for the Countess and Duke.

Catching the tail-end of Zachary’s speech, she also came close enough to see the Count of Candive being shackled. Her eyes also expected the sight of blood, but she saw none… only the fallen sword and shield seemed to reinforce Count Placev’s defeat. A shearing sensation took hold of her… the sensation of having her heart torn in two. She shook with the profundity of it, and bit her tongue to keep from shouting something rash. She looked with some amazement, some questioning, some resentfulness at Bazil, but mostly her conflicted brown eyes bore into the Count’s form.

“Unshackle him,” she mouthed, but she could not yet bring herself to say it aloud.

Garrow turned and looked at the defeated duke. "this man is a criminal to the crow and that station deserves shackles" he said to his men, "Under no ones order save my own or Bazils , is that clear" he said to an almost instant response of "yes my liege" he turned to Bazil and Nodded. Garrow duck through the gathered crowd of soldiers and away towards the Duke Rodger's tent.

as he steped away from the crowd he noticed the both the beautiful countess Magenhyld, and the Earl of the land Æirik. not surprised to see the countess he gaze lingered on the Earl for only a moment. he then walked up to the countess, "I hear there something of import at the Duke Rodger's tent, may I escort you" he asked trying to keep his good nature after this ugly affair, and hopefully be allowed to escort this beauty to a victory dinner at the dukes. or so he assumed.

As the cold concentration of combat faded in Placev, so it was replaced with the harsh heat of unbridled anger. "I submit to nothing, I promise nothing," he snarled. "This... trial is nothing but the work of lesser men seeking to further themselves by accusing me of treachery most foul. I will not honor it and so," he held his hands out before him, "you'll have to chain me, boy."

An angry murmur arose from the men of Candive as the shackles were put on their count, but they were surrounded and outnumbered and so they did nothing. Victor, tears of fury in his eyes, took a step forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Placev caught his gaze and shook his head slightly. Victor nodded slowly, and backed up.

"Lead on," Placev said with a scornful laugh, "Let's get this mockery done with."

Earl Æirik Guthorm

Æirik sized up the moment as quickly as possible and he wasted no time turning to his second son, leaning across to whisper in the young mans ears. The lads gasp of surprise and the look he shot his father was lost on everyone else as they watched the chaining of a Count.

As his son turned his horse about and vanished in a spurt of dust towards BloodMoor Castle, several other horsemen, prompted by his words, rode towards the various Castles throughout BloodMoor.

Æirik meanwhile finally managed to get the attention of one of the watching soldiers and waved the soldier to his side. “What is this about lad?”

The soldier shrugged. “I haven’t a clue my lord. The King is dead and within moments they are at each throats.”

The news nearly knocked Æirik from his horse and he made the soldier repeat it a second time before staring south towards the capital. The King had ever been a good man, kind to his people and generous to his loyal servants and Æirik had returned that loyalty with his own fanatic Loyalty. But now that man was dead and as far as the Earl could remember, there was no clear heir to the throne. The impact was not lost on him, nor was the repercussions of the actions happening before him. A man had been chained on his lands, without his leave or counsel. If he was to remain neutral in their conflict for the moment he must have nothing of the sort happening. With a shout he forced his horse through the watching crowd.

“There will be none of that!”

His added height from horseback made him imposing to those on the ground and though he only had fifteen men at his back, these were his lands and in absence of the King, his word was law.

“Remove those shackles!”

The man who had placed the shackles looked at him blankly and Æirik drew his sword, voice steady as he stared at the man.

“I said remove his shackles! This is my land and you will do as ordered!”

The man nodded meekly and removed the shackles, stepping back as the Lord of Candive was returned his weapons. Æirik gazed around at the assembled mass and sheathed his sword, his next words cold and precise.

“I will have no part of this foolishness. Take it with you. Get off my land.”

Garrow seeing Placev being thrown on a horse and galloped towards Stormpeak. quickly Zachary was off after the man. Garrow quickly turned to this Æirik, "Sir this may be you lands but i will have you know that you hath no right to threaten my men or command them. if not for the troops of all these lands yours would have been over run and you most like dead." he marched forward as he spoke and made sure that his weapon was ready to be drawn. "if anything of this sort where to happen again, you would be sure to have much blood on your hands. and will grant you this, it wont be mine."

with a flourish he turned faced the too nobles arguing over the next king already. " the two of you should be ashamed. we have had no time to mourn and already you argue of who will take the throne. you disgust me" he said and spit on the ground in front of them and strode of towards his tent. in an instant Sir Beckett was at his side. " sir what shall i do for you." he said

"make ready the horses that are left we will support Bazil in this matter, it was a privet duel and not a matter of the kingdom.and surly he will go after the count. " he said walking at a brisk pace he made it to his tent very quickly "Have the footmen break camp and join us as soon as possible. we ride ahead" he ducked into his tent as Sir Beckett ran off to get his orders under way.

Garrow began wrapping his many cuts and bruises that he could and made ready to ride in under ten minutes. the rest of his men waiting out side his tent. 200 horses had survived and the men to man them as well.he mounted his horse which had amazingly survived the battle and turned to face his men "Men of Issilia, we ride to possibly more battle. any man who does not wish to join in this event may leave now and return home." he said and not a soul moved. his men proving once more there loyalty and trust of their leader. "then brave men let us join in the hunt" he lead what horses where available to the lord Bazil's tent. and awaited his arrival.

Æirik 's eyes narrowed as the Lord of Stormpeak trode on his right as a Nobleman to make rulings in lue (SP?) of the King being present. The Lord of Stormpeak did not know it but he had just made himself an enemy, and enemy who was not likely forget the insult just handed to him. Æirik was already in the process of turning his mount in disgust with the whole affair when he heard more words being directed his way but he ignored them and clapped his heels back and rode northwards again, towards BloodMoor Castle.

Over the first rise he crossed sat some fifty men, all upon fine horses, Wolf skins decorating their armour so that the jaws sat upon their heads. These were the Frontier Wolves, his elite fighting unit, men who went into the wilds alone for two weeks and had to return with a Wolf pelt, men who had served him for at least five years. His eldest son was at their head in his full armour, for he, like his father, had also won his entrance to the Frontier Wolves. Upon spotting his father he urged his horse forward and the two met, circling for a moment before exchanging greetings.

"What news father?" The eldest son was a big lad, his mothers Northern heritage all but erasing his Numinor blood. Heavily built and with a large war hammer on his back he filled his father with pride, the lad was a fighter.

"Bad I am afraid. The King is dead and already the nobles squabble." His son gave a snort of disgust at those words, he ignored it as he continued, "This will not end well. I want you and your Wolves to watch the battlefield and report back to me on any happenings. The Garrison commanders of our other strongholds have been informed of what is happening. They are going to hold station until further orders from me alone." The younger man nodded, accepting his fathers wisdom in all matters. "I must ride to BloodMoor Castle, I will be needing to visit your mothers kin, I think it might be time to press our claims there."

Æirik the Younger grinned and clasped hands with his father. "I will not fail you!" With a whoop he turned to his men and rapped out orders, Æirik sparing them a quick glance as he rode away, smiling in fatherly pride as he saw his son riding to the ridgeline with the Frontier Wolves. Sure that the chaos was well monitored he rode North.

The gates of the Castle ground open for him and he clattered across the bridge, dismounting with a flourish and throwing his reins to a squire. He spied his wife watching from the windows above and he gave her a wave, she blew him a kiss.

"Pack your things love! The King is dead! The civil war is only moments away. I think its time we went to claim the lands owed to me in the North!" His shout carried across the entire Castle and heads turned his way, eyes bright with excitement. In disaster some men saw nothing but despair, others saw opportunity.

The road wound a seprentine path through a forest of dark pines and massive moss-covered boulders which reared up out of the shadows like beasts ready to pounce. The very earth had a primeval feeling about it, with dark clay soil covered in a deep carpet of brown needles.

Three riders traveled slowly along the road, the hands of the middle rider bound by chains. Anton Placev gazed about him, considering the seemingly endless ranks of trees through which he now passed. "Do either of you have something to drink, do you?" he asked.

There was no response from either of Duke Roger's knights, and Placev sighed. "No, I guess not."

He endured a few more minutes of silence before speaking. "Can we stop? I need to relieve myself."

Neither of the knights spoke. Placev shifted higher in his saddle. "I may be in chains, but I am still a lord," he said, "And you treat me with respect. Now stop!" This last was a barked command from a count used to commanding whole armies, let alone two men.

The knights looked at each other, then one who held onto Placev's reins grunted and the three riders stopped. Placev was helped down and he was walked by one of the men to the side of the road while the other minded the horses.

"It's difficult to piss with chains on," Placev said. The knight shook his head. "We have our orders, milord. You'll have to manage."

With some trouble managed to lift his mail and surcoat up. "I don't suppose there's any way I could convince you to let me go," Placev asked, "Money, perhaps? I've enough gold to reward you well."

The knight looked at him without expression. "Just finish up, milord."

Placev shrugged. "It was worth asking you. If there's no other way then..."

He whirled about and threw the knife he had retrieved from its hiding place in his hose. With expert precision it struck the knight in his throat, and the man toppled backward with blood spurting from a nicked carotid. The other knight shouted and, drawing his sword, spurred toward where Placev stood. The count was unarmed, but stood his ground as the other man bore down on him. When the knight and horse were nearly upon him Placev stepped to the side and with the chain of his shackles swung as hard as he could at the horse's mouth.

The animal screamed as it was struck and shied away, causing its rider -- who had begun to swing at Anton's head -- to struggle with the reins. Placev didn't wait for the knight to regain control, instead grabbing the man by the foot and heaving upward. The knight tumbled out of his saddled with a cry, and as he dazedly tried to rise Placev kicked him in the face before stomping on his throat. Windpipe crushed, the man's eyes were wide with terror as he fought hopelessly for breath. Placev ground his heel down, and after a few moments the man went limp.

Anton was breathing hard. He half-walked, half-staggered back to where the other knight lay dead in a spread pool of blood. A quick search of the body found him an iron key, and the shackles clanked as they fell to the ground. Placev availed himself of the man's belt and sword as well.

The horses had been scattered by the smell of blood, but Placev succeeded in reclaiming one of the mounts. He left the two bodies lying there on the road, riding at a gallop away through the forest. He had to reach Candive.

Magenhyld did not accept Garrow’s offer to escort her to Duke Roger’s tent. “I thank you, Baron, but I am fine where I stand,” she replied coldly. Her county neighbored Isillia, and so she retained her civility with the Baron. But there was also a distinct curl of dislike to her lips, for she found out that he was instrumental in putting Count Placev in those degrading chains.

The Countess stood in the periphery of the conflict over Placev, watching the madness of him being unshackled and reshackled. Her vision went bleary, as the pain from the arrow in her shoulder intensified, as well as bruises and cuts that she had not noticed before. The sweat from her pain and weariness made her hair damp and cling to her forehead. But she still stood, her focus shifting restlessly between the conflicts of the nobles and her own injuries.

Once Duke Roger made his appearance, her attention fixed. She had never been a great supporter of the Duke of Stormpeak, no matter if he had the King’s backing. Stormpeak always seemed too large for her comfort. She had always preferred to align herself with his rival, the now imprisoned Count Placev… feeling loyalty to him as a fellow Countess of the smaller domains in the Northwest. She felt kinship in that they both had to worry about being swallowed up by the greedy duchy at the heart of Numinor. Now, she distrusted Duke Roger more than ever as his men hauled Placev away.

Then the news finally reached her ears that King Gregor was dead. And, in the same blow, that Duke Roger was eager to replace him. Her face became stony with dread—with Candive fallen, Stormpeak could easily help himself to the smaller baronies and counties that surrounded it. He would rule the land with his despicable war tactics and elitism.

Crispain’s protest was welcome to her ears. And after he reminded them all of his royal ancestry and his right to the throne, she looked at him far differently. She frowned again at Garrow as he spat at the Dukes’ feet. Her eyes returned again to Crispain, as her mind whirred envisioning him as the King of Numinor. Then she felt a touch to her elbow, and she turned to see that a few of her knights and retainers had found her.

“Lady Countess, you look faint. Do let us lead you to your tent to have your shoulder tended,” they advised. She nodded her head, going with them and looking behind her to see the men of Milsteading gathering behind those of Essyer, in defiance of Stormpeak’s dominion.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

In her tent, Magenhyld’s flesh on her shoulder felt afire, recovering after her physician removed the arrow shaft. She was glad to be rid of her hauberk, her frame feeling so much lighter without it. As her bare shoulder was wrapped, she sipped wine and had her rosy face dabbed by one of her attendants.

She stared before her, eyes wide and predicting the words of her advisors. Although alliances were yet to unfold, she could foresee the rift between the most powerful duchies of the kingdom. Her advisors would probably tell her to align with her neighboring domains, Isillia and Albedam, the both of which she could imagine being on the side of Stormpeak. It would make sense for the conflict to be North versus South. And Avenable was such a vulnerable little county, it would be fool to go against the opinion of the neighbors that boxed her in.

‘I will renounce my title as Countess,’ she plotted to herself. ‘I will give Avenable to Blaive, after he recovers, and he can take the safe route of following the Baronies. Avenable, afterall, is such an inconsequential bit of land. Blaive was not born with very great ambition, and he will be comfortable enough with a title as Count…’

When she thought of what would become of herself, she had a surge of the very ambition that her eldest son lacked. She could do much better than a countess of a quaint, but wasted, seaside domain. Avenable was dying… it’s population whittling away, as the shore was eaten by the sea.

She could marry again, one of the wealthier and more prominent lords of the south. The Marquis—he was young, but he had wealth, and was showing more and more prominence, and even an interest in the welfare of her children. Or even better yet… she thought again of Crispain. He did have a wife at one time she knew, but Magenhyld couldn’t quite remember if the young thing had survived past childbirth or the plagues that swept the land. But whether he had a wife or not seemed inconsequential at the moment. The Countess’s eyes blazed with a new desire… the desire to reign as a Duchess, or even… Queen.

Jarl Halvar surveyed the beleagured trickle of northern warriors that went past him. He was astride a large gelding for ease, though he had never gained any skill at fighting from horseback like his southern counter-parts. The procession of men before him were the remnants of the raiding army that had pushed into Numenor. The accounts he'd garnered of the battle were widly varied, most bordering on the impossible. Jarl Halvar was old enough not to underestimate his enemies to the south, and guessed it had been some sort of trick or ruse. Whatever it had been, it had worked.

For his part in the battle, his small detachment of cavalry which had participated in the battle had been more or less wiped out. The rest of his force was otherwise intact, though not exactly fresh. He'd called a quick march for the last two hours, to be sure it appeared to all that he'd come through the hilly terrain of his eastern border at all haste, only missing the battle by mere hours. This, despite being one of the closest Jarls to Bloodmoor. It was plausible, but that didn't spare him displeased looks by what peers he saw returning from the battle - or in some case, their retinues.

Despite everything going, roughly, to his plan for the day, it pained Gunnarsson to see such a broken army. It was more then a regular defeat. The eyes of the warriors, from young to mighty, were haunted. It wasn't natural, it shook the Jarl's pride in his brave people for a moment. Well, he thought. At least my men still hold their heads high. Those men were, for the most part, helping the wounded and setting up a relief camp. Jarl Halvar still kept a fair sized contingent of troops behind him, out of habit. Also, the fate of Konungr Agnarr was still unkown to him. It would not be wise to appear less then mighty, lest the leaderelss Jarls take their ire out on him before their leader was accounted for.

Who but the Gods knew, however? Perhaps Konungr Agnarr had gone the way that the Numenorean King had gone. Dead. This would make for a power vacuum to the south. Weak, and disorganised, he could likely make a push to gain lands in the south, as well as from his battered neighbours - though all would have to be done carefully. It wouldn't do to have his enemies united against him. An encursion into Armenor maybe? Or Albedam accross the water? Not right away, however. The might of Numenor was still gathered in Blood Dell, and the last thing wanted by Jarl Halvar Gunnarsson was for them to find a leader by way of crushing him.

As soon as Magenhyld heard that Essyer was waiting to break camp, she ordered the same for Avenable. “My son may not be moved until he is recovered,” she told her closest followers. “And I would hardly order my soldiers to march again after they won a grueling battle.”

Hours passed before the Countess emerged from her tent. She spent the time in quiet contemplation, steadying her nerves and firming her resolve. Then she sent again for her female attendants. During a light bath, it gave her pleasure to notice that her courses had concluded—her monthly bleeding had passed. This gave her freedom to be dressed in garments of her special request—the top most, which was a loose robe of fine purple and silver brocade, one to rival the blue star-speckled robe of Countess Ailil.

With her fine robe and eyes lined with kohl, she looked the regal but mournful noblewoman. She made her presence known in her camp, standing by as her soldiers were fed. She thanked and consoled them, and let them kiss her hand and her ring with Avenable’s signet. After supper, she gave a toast and speech by fireside to her men and women, spreading word to them about the King’s death, but mostly praising their efforts that day, and bemoaning the loss of their fellows. She drank with them. But before she had too much, she retired again to her tent and waited as the night progressed.

As the revelry of her soldiers was dying down, she was struck with the yearning to see Blaive again. She had been thinking of him all evening. So she snuffed the candles in her tent, summoned a sober page and had him bring a torch to light the short way to Essyer’s camp. She drew her fur mantle over her brocade robe and lifted her chin in a dignified fashion when she entered the Duke’s camp. She went straight to the tent where Blaive was being kept, and bid her page to return to their camp, since she would be staying with her son a while.

In the tent, she knelt again by Blaive’s bedside. With her hair let down as it was, he seemed to recognize her more readily. He even had the strength to sit up partially so that he could grasp her hand and kiss it with pale lips, just as all the other soldiers had done. She spent some time brushing the hair from his eyes and murmuring in his ear.

“You must survive this injury, my son. I will make you Count of Avenable, I promise it. Oh, but what a bright future you and your brother have, Blaive. Galeran will become a knight of the realm. You and him may even become…” and here, she spoke the word only in her thoughts: “…princes.”

He did not seem to notice her unfinished sentence, for he was beginning to slip into sleep. Slowly, Magenhyld drew her hands away from him and stood up. She bid him goodnight, as well as Yvonne, her woman who was quiet and weary-looking herself.

She left the tent, but she did not leave the camp. She cast her eyes about and espied the tent which she perceived to be the one in which she might find Crispain. A change came over her when she thought of the be-scarred duke. The look in her smoky eyes changed from mournful and motherly to sultry and desirous.

“The Countess of Avenable has come to bestow an evening call on his lordship the Duke,” she said formally to his guards. “If he is not otherwise engaged.”