Ramiro
Shaydrin Skagerlly, sixthborn of Lord Radgore Skagerlly
Outside Castle Barrmount, Iron Plaines

"I need to piss," Said Shaydrin. He stood up, fixed his black-wool cloak, and started away from his companions into the thick of the dim forest.

Kefan Clodamyr shrugged. "More mead for us, then," He said, tipping the bottleneck to his lips.

They'd been told to stand guard by the bodies in case anyone tried to loot them, and in doing so got the plague themselves and brought it back to the camp. *Can anyone really be so stupid that they'd ...?* Shaydrin stopped the thought, realising that the answer to any question starting with those words was always: 'Yes, they can.' 

The only living person he saw at the pit when he passed it by was Alvar. Shaydrin knew that the lad was noble, but he didn't know the exact house. The stench didn't seem to be fazing him. His shovel lay at his feet as he sat in the snow, hands encircling his bent knees as he stared in desolation at the vacant eyes of his camp wife, which were puffy and pink from the plague. Shaydrin couldn't remember he name, but he remembered how pretty she'd been before the plague made her pallid and red-eyed, and put that horrid rash on her soft, pale face. Shaydrin imagined Kelsafyr's face cracking and discolouring as the plague took her away from him, away from this ugly world that needed her but didn't deserve her. He wrinkled his nose and hurried away from the pit to where he could be unseen.

The pine trees seemed to close in on him the further out he walked. He *Abhorred* The Iron Plains. It was too eery, too remote, too wooded. It felt as though he was walking the edge of the world—or the boundary between this world and another. This was a land of strange Witherlanders: warmongerers obsessed with endless invention and scientific development; pale ghost-men—his distant kin—who tried to run a civilised, southernesque city in a frozen kingdom of savages; the horse-lovers who had been thirsting for Skagerlly blood for generations; the wildmen in their fortress of treeflesh; the list went on.

Eventually, Shaydrin found a decent place, near a point where the trees ended and gave way to a clearing of snow. He sighed as he reached down and undid his drawstring. What followed was the most excellent feeling of relief he'd experienced since he'd left the Weeping Pit. For a moment, he smiled. Then his nose began to pick up a deathly odour, and he looked over his shoulder to see the light of fire dancing behind the trees. He imagined the fire reaching deep into the disgusting, desecrated corpses, purifying them for the gods. Once the fire died, they'd fill the pit up with earth, and the death-filled cavity would become one with the land.

Just as he'd finished retying his drawstring, he heard a sound. Fear seized his heart. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He went bug-eyed and flashed his sword out of its scabbard, holding it in a longpoint stance as he scanned his surroundings. At first, he saw nothing; he started to think it had just been the wind. Then, at the edge of the trees, he saw a shape lying in the snow. What looked like a cloak of black fur was draped over a tall, human form, which seemed to be either dead or asleep.

Shaydrin cautiously approached the curled-up figure, still presenting the tip of his sword. Once he was close enough, he sussed out the location of its shoulderblades and poked the tip of his blade in between them. "Get up," He softly commanded.
Hassan
Azai
Outside Castle Barrmount, Iron Plaines

Those dreadful dreams had calmed down, Azai being left to simply sit around a campfire with his beheaded brother. The two didn't speak, they only stared into the fire, letting the quiet spread over them. But, this haunting dream soon ended, and Azai slowly opened his pale blue eyes to see the tip of a sword. He didn't make a move, only following the spine of the blade up to the face of the person who dared disturb his sleep. Azai did not respond, his sword resting against his shoulder, ready to be used if things didn't go smoothly. The fur coat was held tight around his frame as he stood up, blade held against him with the hilt poking out past his shoulder, next to his head. 

As he stood there, his body hidden from view, he had to make a logical decision here and now. This man looked like a soldier, deserters maybe? No, they wouldn't hesitate in that case. There were more soldiers not too far away, and they probably had horses as well, so running away into the snowy plains would be a death sentence. He'd be surrounded and cut down instantly. Not to mention, killing soldiers would put a bounty on his head, and he did not know the politics of the region. With a deep, heavy sigh, the white haired man nodded, cocking his head towards the camp. For now, it seemed he was willing to go along with Shaydrin's commands, but the grip on the blade underneath the fur cloak was kept tight. 

"For whom do you fight?"

He asked, gaze focusing on Shaydrin's blade. If that sharp sword was brought any closer to his frame, Azai would certainly retaliate. But, he would certainly not be in his best form if their swords were to clash. He was clearly hungry, cold, and possibly ill. It didn't look like the plague, rather, it was most likely just a fever. The tension remained as Azai stared deep into Shaydrin's eyes, awaiting his answer.
Ramiro
Shaydrin Skagerlly
Outside Castle Barrmount, Iron Plaines

The eyes that met his were a cold hazel colour, upturned and slightly asymmetrical. Nevertheless, the shadowed face he beheld had a haunting, regal beauty about it, with statuesque contours and a head of silky, light-brown waves. Shaydrin was about two inches shorter than Azai, with what looked to be a slight build underneath his warm apparel. His spectral mien is reinforced by the smell of burning flesh that wafts through the trees.

He makes Azai wait for a few seconds, then tilts up his chin imperiously. "My name is Shaydrin Skagerlly, son of Radgore Skagerlly—Lord of the Weeping Pit. We're here as the bannermen of Nathaniel Vivayn, on his campaign to overthrow Marshall." He took a step back and adopted a foolsguard, his sword held low to expose his torso. "You don't look to be in fightin' shape, friend. You'll offer the handle of your weapon to me, and part with it as I take you back to camp."
Hassan
Azai
Outside Castle Barrmount, Iron Plaines

Visibly disturbed, Azai kept hold of his weapon, squinting as he was asked to hand over his blade. The fur cloak was left to open, revealing the fit and battle hardened form of the snow haired stranger. His weapon, tall and wide, was being gripped by the blade itself, the blood flowing down the cold edge. The thing was about Azai's height from pommel to tip, and the crossguard seemed to be missing. It was a very bare and simple blade, but one that prioritized function over form.

"I refuse. My sword stays with me."

Azai took a step back, as if readying himself for a fight. But the man didn't reach for the hilt of his weapon. Seemed he'd be pretty hard to convince to change his mind, but Azai was not in much of a position to negotiate. Perhaps he was being bold, or just too hungry and tired to think about this situation logically.
Ramiro
Shaydrin sighed. This one was too jumpy. His declining physical state was probably making him desperate, perhaps even delirious. He certainly didn't seem to be grasping the circumstances into which he had stumbled. Nevertheless, he was clearly a well-built youth, making him dangerous if cornered—and that blade at his hip seemed a beast of a weapon.

His mind flashed. If he let him into the camp with a weapon, the others would probably see him as either a threat or a challenge. If he went unarmed, some of them might think him easy pickings for abuse. He was more likely to survive the latter.

"Listen," He growled. "The cold is gettin' to you. I can see it in your face." He looked over Azai's shoulder, squinting at the bright white of the snow. "If you turn around and try to make it to Wrencrest or some other settlement—assumin' you have a clue where any of those are—I doubt you'll make it." He nodded to the direction behind him. "Smell that? We're burnin' the dead who died of the plague. We left them to waste away at the edge of the camp. Just tossed them all into a pit in the ground, no rites or nothin'. Didn't even slit their throats to give them an early end. Do you want to know why we didn't, boy?"