Susan
**Birdie Omorro**
**Camp on the Road to Kelmore**

"Mmm." Birdie took the cigarette from Romanov's fingers and returned the smile. "Dangerous in another man's company, perhaps. Here, I assure you, it's not so." He took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, letting his breath mix together with the campfire's smoke as it swirled away into the night.

"Firstly, I can say that the girls deeply appreciate your attendance. It's been incredibly challenging, as you can imagine, to be trapped there, inside a burning House. Their efforts to rebuild the Falke's reputation, and their family's legacy..." Birdie paused, trying to quell a coughing spasm. "It takes a great deal of strength, and a greater deal of grit. These are the legs that power stands upon. You've made the right choice, coming all the way here - I assure you."

Birdie took another drag and found that it eased his desperation to cough. "The girls are survivors, but they're true, budding leaders. They're quite different from each other, as you'll find, but they even each other out. I hesitate to speak on their character before they've made their first impressions on you, but as a word of advice, I would direct any pointed questions to Emilia and not to Fran."
-

Birdie considered the cigarette for a moment, then held it back out to Romanov. "I've loved serving the House for all these years, though it hasn't been without its... Tribulations. But the girls, they're only days short of eighteen, and already full of such ambition. In a few years' time, people will have different words coming out of their mouths when they speak of House Falke, I'll tell you that. You'll be happy to have forged these connections early." Birdie took a deep breath. All this talk of the Falkes made his heart ache for home. He stared into the fire, letting his eyes, for a moment, unfocus and blur with the flames. *Burn, burn, burn. All things burn away with time.*

Birdie came back to himself with a start and glanced back up to Meese and Romanov. "I could ramble on about the House for days, but you'll soon see it for yourself, won't you? Thanks for the company, sirs. A new day truly must be dawning is anyone is curious to hear of House Falke."
Sybil
Ser Oreson Buckle
The Road to Kelmore, the Camp

Ser Oreson had fallen asleep. The day's ride and the hot sun had taken the strength from his bones. The back of his cart had been transformed. Shortly after making Camp, Nephew had gotten down from his seat and set to work. Wooden beams had been pitched along the perimeter of the cart's bed, and thick red canvas was stretched between them. With a small amount of hooks and ropework, there was a tent covering the bed of the cart, and a smaller, shoddier one over the driver's seat. 

A pair of skinny yellow flags, emblazoned with the bronze buckle of House Buckle of Yarrick, hung limply on the tips of the tent's twin peaks. 

Ser Oreson's feet, now bootless, stuck out from in-between the flaps of his tent. He must have fallen asleep in the process of taking off his socks, as one of his feet lay bare, while the other was in a state of undress. The sock was a shabby thing, the garter was slung over his thick ankle and the cloth over his big toe was worn away to nothing. So sonorous were his snores that the very canvas walls seemed to vibrate, as if someone was using the tent to saw logs in half. 

Nephew scarcely had been given time to rest, more concerned with fetching water from a nearby stream, scouring his uncle's great dingy breastplate, and unbridling the twin horses that had spent the day pulling their cart. He had tied their leads to the branches of a tall birch tree and had set out a basin filled with fresh water. They lapped from it happily now, as the squire brushed them down and inspected their hooves for rocks. He did the same with the other horses in the party, and when he was finished, his hands red from scrubbing and his clothes smelling of horse, he sat down at the edge of the fire and made himself a small spot on the top of an squat piece of firewood.

He cleared his throat and held out the palms of his hands, and after a moment, closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm of the flickering firelight.
Scotty
Sir Heath Romanov
The Road to Kelmore, The Camp

Heath accepted the cigarette back and flicked the remainder of it into the fire. A coyote wailed far off in the distance, mimicking the bloodcurdling scream of a woman. Back in Old Feyshore, a coyote's cry was often mistaken for that of a banshee. A bad omen, often signifying the death of one's family member. Oreson's snores deepened, drowning out the rest of the night. Heath looked accusingly at Oreson's nephew, somehow finding blame in the boy for his uncle's offenses. The least he could have done was press a pillow to his uncle's face until he stopped making noise. *The least*. The cry of a banshee would then be fitting. After a minute, his wretched snores finally subsided.

Heath pushed his sandy locks from his eyes and settled back in his seat. He thought about how horrified his older sister would be to hear of his attendance to a Falke event. A smile crossed his lips. Perhaps he would forgive Oreson for the kidnapping. However, he would not soon forgive the snoring. 

"We look forward to meeting them," Heath said to Birdie. He glanced over at Meese and cocked his eyebrow, elbowing him in the ribs. "Emilia and Fran sound like they'd be excellent matches for you," He said, low enough that Birdie could not hear.