Melanie
John De Burgh
Burgh

 The night of Northwind was a special kind of darkness. It was a cold black shroud - an unforgiving veil, through which only the most dangerous creatures could see. John closed his eyes, his throat clenched by ash like it was a cheap fragrance. He could not see, but the sounds of swords clanging together remained visceral. Men died around him - impaled, gorged, cut into pieces - all at his behest. A hand gently lay on his shoulder as he snapped back to reality. John's marble eye snapped at its surroundings, forgetting that it was not real. Nonetheless, his lifeless socket could still feel the heat of the fire burning in front of him. 

 Nearly a month had passed since the victory at Burgh, and his men had finally taken to celebrating. Pleasant aromas flowed through the cobblestone streets, signifying the feast that had come and gone. The suckling pigs, hanging fresh on their spits, sent John immediately back to the battle where thousands of squealing hogs stampeded to their deaths. Their cries reminded John of those of his men, whose lives were sacrificed for the sake of one man's victory.

John was no longer the same man who rode to battle to face Tharn Skorn. His hair had once been ash-colored but now was a silvery-white. John refused to let anybody come anywhere near him with a blade of any sort, so his hair flowed long beneath his shoulders. Loose wisps flowed in the wind, coming dangerously close to the fleeing embers of the fire. Suddenly, he had been locked into reality - awoken again from the dream state which appeared to consume him ever more often. Around him, John's most esteemed men discussed the provisions of their departure. Finally, after an eternity of warfare, John would return to Iron Gate. Burgh had lost its significance to him; it was no longer his home. He spent his earliest days here and had his only opportunity to experience the innocence of youth. Now, after witnessing it be desecrated, it was simply another statistic - another piece in his most elaborate puzzle. 

 "Remember men; we ride at dawn. Ensure your festivities do not impair you for the journey to come." The Lord said, rising from his position on a flattened oak log. "I will rest, disturb me if necessary." As much as it pained him to admit, these festivities sickened him. The illusion of safety and happiness was a respite, a deadly lie, for what was to come. The gears of war had not slowed, not while John De Burgh lived. On his way to the common house, he could not avoid the statue built in his honor. Tharn Skorn had all but destroyed it when he ransacked the town, and even after strenuous renovations, the damage was evident. Its cracks were smoothed and its details more refined, but it had lost its life. It was no longer a statue of an impassioned man but a Lord whose fate and purpose was confused. The look in his eyes was weary but full of an unquenchable thirst for conquest.

There had been one task that had kept John's mind occupied for their entire stay at Burgh, and he had gone through every measure possible to avoid it. Hour-long dialogues with his commanders discussing their provisions and weaponry did not give him enough comfort to rely only on his possessions. Relying on foreign nations for support in these times is always undesirable, especially for someone as firm in their national faith as John. But now, there was no other option. He sat at his desk, the cold oak insulting his touch as if it were telling him to reconsider. Dipping his quill in ink, he wrote:

"To the King of the Southern Isles,
 
 I pray this letter reaches you in good health and does not spoil your festivities. It is to my shame that we have never met, but your unmatched reputation as a man of business causes me enough comfort to forego the typical cautions I would take with such matters. You may have heard that the war in the North is nearing its end, but there is still much to be done. I require Southern craftsmen to construct me three trebuchets, three great weapons of war that will inspire fear into the hearts of my enemies, branded with my sigil. However, I require one of them to be a truly hulking monstrosity. A great beast of proportions never before seen. Do me this, and I will reward your house in the most generous of the war's spoils. 

 Lord John, Regent of Northwind."

Once he had penned his signature, that feeling of dread had evaporated. Putting those words into reality replaced his solemnity with vigor, as he knew he would soon taste battle once again. All that remained was the coming ride home. However, there was still one more person John had neglected to write to. A person whose political savvy may be of need in the affairs to come. Groaning at his negligence, he sealed the parchment with his wax stamp before producing another. This one would be briefer.

"To Albert Rhoderick,

 We have met the enemy, and they are ours. Accompany my men to Iron Gate, as we have much to discuss regarding our Kingdom's future.

 Lord John, Regent of Northwind."

Finally, he could rest. John felt that he had begun to lose his clerical ability, a fault that bothered him. War had consumed every piece of his mind to the point where he had lost sight of the politics, the intricacies. He asked himself what happened to the scholar he had made himself in the Temples of the Atmor, lumbering into his sheets that were still visibly stained by his blood. 

 A bitter cold awoke him, needling at still tender wounds from the battle. It took him a moment to remember that he was alive, feeling the silver wisps of hair almost seep into his empty eye socket like an overgrown vine. He no longer needed his cane to walk, but each step had made him feel helplessly similar to a bare-footed toddler. Dagmar awaited him outside the common-house bedroom.

 "It's nearly dawn, my Lord. The army has been awaiting you." He said, trying to downplay his impatience with John's long sleep.
 "You should have woken me, then." John bantered, attempting to mask the awkwardness.

 The city was an entirely different sight once it was under the sunlight. It did not mirror the colorless and tiresome image that the rest of the country had. Burgh was blessed with green trees, colored dwellings but was plagued with a populace now scarred with the sight of battle. Many had witnessed their friends and families butchered, tortured to insanity, mutilated, and the Gods knew what else. John averted the gazes of the common-folk as he climbed upon Solmyr, who had become in some way his most trusted confidant. Remnants of the small encampment had littered the field surrounding Burgh, hundreds standing at the ready for the march. With little hesitation, John reared his steed into a trot and had left his hometown once again.
Jarod
Lei Linas | The Keep Spiternal 

Lei tensed as she moved closer to him,  hiding himself as she drew near. He did not know what to say in response. He felt he had no place to give his opinion on her parents as she had not asked of his thoughts nor did he have any clue of their history. He was still surprised to even have the luxury of stepping into her family's castle. 

Lei looked at the folks gathering closer to him and shrunk nervously back into the wall. Seeing them move away at Lady de Lysse's command, the young man felt relieved. His momentary peace was soon startled away when she grabbed onto his face, causing him to tense and pull his shoulders up briefly. 

Hearing of a war, Leis' expression shrunk with sorrow, now knowing what she needed of him. To harm others with his talent was the last thing he ever wanted, but knowing there were innocent lives in danger his eyes were fueled with determined fire. Even if he had no intention of crafting death machines, he could still arm them with strong defences. 

 "Apologies your grace, I will make sure to address you properly." 

He said bowing his head respectfully. 

"Your grace, I can create these walls needed for your people's protection. I have also learned to create armored bottom hulls for carriages, perhaps I can manufacture something entirely armored for defensive purposes
Ronald
**Jeanne de Lysse | The Keep Sempiternal**

"There is only thing that can save a country from the preadtion of wolves, and it's not greater walls... It's the death death of the wolves."

From under the water, Jeanne pulled the leg knife she had attached to her thigh. It was an ornate silver blade, more fit for ceremonial use than as an actual weapon, yet it remained painfully sharp nevertheless. Her friends would often say how it was paranoia to carry such a thing around all the time, but Jeanne beleived otherwise. A venomous serpent needed to keep its fangs, if it were to remain dangerous.
She placed the tip of the blade between Lei's nose and his lips, then slid it all the way down to his belly button.

"What I need from you, Lei Linas, is that you become a weaponsmith. In case I haven't made myself clear, it's what the survival of all the people you met at the town depends upon. As long as the barbarian hordes of Northwind draw breath, the farmlands of the Grey Hills will never be safe. You cannot keep both of them alive. The survival of one must be bought with the blood of the other, and if you refuse to pay the price in blood, what you are doing is standing with our ennemies."
Jarod
Lei Linas | The Keep Spiternal 

His heart sank as soon as her words resonated in his mind. He wanted to argue that these were not wolves, but other people. He couldn't possibly murder another person... Much less create weapons to do such an evil deed. At this point, did he even have a choice? 

The burning embers in his eyes were quick to cool into cold ashes as soon as he witnessed the pearl white glint of her blade. He stiffened as soon as it touched his skin, his eyes watching the sharp edge as it trailed down his gentle features. Now he saw how deep he had fallen into the rabbit hole, and he feared that he might not get out of it alive. 

A terrified expression of defeat and weakness was seen in his expression as he kept his weary eyes down. He felt caged and helpless, forgetting that he was in a place of paradise. If he stayed here any longer, he feared that he may become a blood tinged beast of war.
Ronald
**Jeanne de Lysse | The Keep Sempiternal**

Jeanne got out of the bath and grabbed a towel that hung from Mafalda's statue. The rest of her coterie followed suit, leaving Linas alone in the water.

"Don't make those eyes, weaponsmith. They make me feel pity for you," Said the young lady. "Remember that without those weapons, many innocents will perish horrible deaths at the hands of De Burgh. If not to kill the savages, then do it for the people's sake...

...After all... The worst Mournings are reserved for those who mantain their neutrality in times of moral crisis."
Jarod
Lei Linas | The Keep Spiternal 

It was not long until Lei was left alone. He washed his face to help and rested here alone for a while longer to think over what he was going to do next. 

After a few minutes he found his peace and left the bath house dressed in his clothes. He hoped to be able to get something to eat and have a peaceful rest during the night before he began working. She was right. Although he did not want to admit it, sometimes there was no other way.