Christina
Lord Mallsrek Skagerlly
The Iron Plaines, the Witherlands

Mallsrek peered out from the gloom of his siege camp, surrounded by his hearthtroop, the most loyal of his soldiers ready to lay down their lives for their liege. Their reputation was one of dread and anarchy throughout the world, they stood tall in the mist, their faces etched with scars, harsh reminders of the atrocities they'd committed in the name of House Skagerlly.

He chuckled to himself as he analysed the remaining defenses of Castle Barrmount. His army had done a good job and before him lay a wasteland of destruction with only the thick stone walls of the ramparts still standing with difficulty. But he had no fear, his soldiers would make quick work of this settlement before he could enter victorious.

The plague had lain waste to the defenders and he could see countless numbers of refugees milling around in the enemy courtyard ambling about waiting for their end. It irritated him to be unable to wet his axe but he knew that there were more important events coming up where his warrior prowess would be required so that thought appeased his mind.

Turning to one of his messengers he announces in a gruff voice:

"Gather all the refugees around the castle. Bring the able bodied and healthy ones back here and leave the rest there. Send pikemen to keep them at bay whilst you sort this out. And of course don't send my army, use our allies to do the dirty work. That's what they're for isn't it lads."

His hearthtroop laughed with him whilst the messengers ran off to obey his commands to the word.
Ramiro
*Shaydrin Skagerlly*
*The Iron Plaines, the Witherlands*

Shaydrin gave a wolfish sneer as his brother sent him staggering. It was Shaydrin who had the mindpower, Shaydrin who had the acumen, Shaydren who could grasp the idea of nuance; to spend even a moment in subjection to Mallsrek's crude, shallow physical power filled him with bile.

He stood there, back bent, teeth bared, seething with rage before his brother. *'My sister'? She's our sister, you animal.* But he knew that that meant nothing to Mallsrek, and it was bitter knowledge even to Shaydrin that the three shared a parent.

The anger in his face turned to helpless spite, and though he felt some curse swelling up behind his lips, he knew that what came out would only make his brother laugh in triumph. So he spat the feeble breath out into the chill and turned his face away, plodding onwards along the edge of the forest.

*Later, within the camp*

Shaydrin sipped gently at his tea, the steam tickling his brow. For a moment, he withdrew from the world. His mind was occluded from his gathered subordinates by an inscrutable face, eyes soft and grey as the clouds above levelling a gentle gaze on the map. He lowered the cup from his face, holding it delicately between two slender, white hands, and then looked up at the scout's face. The tension on the man's chapped lips was palpable. He inclined his head a little and said, "It was definitely Sir Lackner?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"And no sign at all of Lord Bennard?"

"No, m'lord. Just Sir Lackner. I couldn't see who was leading the Blacktombs."

Shaydrin eyed the map again, focusing on one marker in particular: Wrencrest. "So it's true, I suppose. Uncle Benny's off to Taemar." He put his cup aside and leaned onto the table. "And that leaves the Rowdy Wren for us to deal with. Now *That* Should be interesting."

A stout man whom Shaydrin didn't recognise walked into the tent, and bent down by the ear of an attending Vivayn vassal. Shaydrin glared. "Oh yes," He said, "Stroll into my tent without so much as announcing yourself."

The man looked at Shaydrin. "Apologies, m'lord." He stood up straight, meeting his hands at his waist. "It's your brother—"

"Oh my." Shaydrin sank back into his chair, looking up at the roof of the tent. "All the pork finally got to his heart. The gods *Are* Good."

"Not quite, m'lord. Your brother is well. He's sent a messenger about, asking for men to weed out able bodies among the peasants."

"The one's we captured?" Shaydrin asked, a lightning-flash of gravity striking his features. When the man replied with a sheepish nod, Shaydrin sighed and buried his face in his hands. "Bloody fool. That pulp needed more time in his mother's belly, I swear." Shaydrin shook his head and stood up from his seat, shaking a finger, "He can't just pluck recruits out between fucking plague victims."

"M'lord," The man said softly, "I wouldn't recommend interfering. I'm told Lord Mallsrek was very particular."

"Then I'll go and make sure that this venture is as *Particular* As possible," Mallsrek retorted as he dragged his heavy black cloak off his chair, "Else he'll kill off half our bloody army before we leave the Plaines."

*Castle Barrmount*

The dying throngs were herded around like sheep. He heard women and children bleating like ewes and lambs, saw the odd man try to fight back with all the hopeless fervour of a sick ram, only to be cut down with ease. And like one of Vivayn's sheepdogs, or perhaps just a dark Skagerlly wolf, he prowled around the flocks, gazing upon them and seeing the sense of doom in their eyes.

A gust of cold wind swept around the walls of the castle, going right through him and chilling his flesh to the aching bone. He hugged his cloak tighter around his body; as miserable as he felt, he knew that he was lucky to have any clothes on his back at all. Right before his eyes, people were being forced to strip themselves bare under the bleak, midday sky, their pale bodies exposed to the teeth of winter. He watched them shiver, saw the yellow pallor and dark rashes on many of their bodies.

Shaydrin shook his head with dismay. He'd seen a lot of horror in his life—what child of House Skagerlly didn't?—but the time of this plague seemed to be especially vile. All these people, bodies already full of pain and rot, being uncovered in the cold and cut at the necks. What was the point? Death by winter's chill was one of the most natural things of all; it was the hand of the gods themselves. Why not send them into the snow and let them die shivering in each other's arms? Why give them such crude, violent ends by man-made steel?

*Hubris. That's what it is. Hubris is the reason you're here watching this, rather than sitting at home in front of a warm fire, with a fur over your lap and a cup of mulled wine in your hands.*

He saw two of Mallsrek's lackeys walking a young man by the arms. Despite being clearly underfed, he had a decently able look about him. Shaydrin would have let them go on if he hadn't noticed a discolouration on the inside of one of the man's arms.

"Stop," He said to the two soldiers. "Look, under his arm."

An air of anxiety fell upon the two men as they let go of his arms. One peered at the spot, then looked over at Shaydrin. "Well-spotted, m'lord."

Shaydrin nodded. "Let's hope neither of you has it now."

"Gods willing," Said one of the men. He turned and gave the lad a powerful kick against the chest. Shaydrin could nearly hear ribs cracking. The young man fell back into the snow, gasping for air. "Sorry, friend," Said the soldier as he raised the tip of his spear over the lad's heart.

Shaydrin looked away and walked on, hearing only a sharp, feeble cry behind him. He gave a withering sigh as he looked absently over the villagers, all surrounded by pikemen keeping them in place. He was considering leaving Mallsrek's men to their task; if they brought the plague back to the camp, then that was on them, and they'd be the first to feel the consequences anyway. At least he'd get to go home.

Amidst the sickly wretches, his eyes caught sight of something bright. It was one girl in their midst; young, malnourished, but, as far as he could tell, far healthier than those around her. She was engulfed by peasants who were clearly infected, with their pallors and their rashes and their pink eyes, but the plague, it seemed, hadn't even touched her. Not only was her skin clear of any morbid corruption, but he could make out strange scarring on her shoulders and her back; all of her that he could clearly see. They didn't seem like any normal marks of violence.

She wasn't just another hopeless villager. There was something different about her. After a day of tearfully predictable scheming and slaughter, Shaydrin had finally found something that piqued his curiosity.

He reached under his cloak and drew his sword out into the open air, wincing as the cold slipped underneath his cover and stung his breast once more. Stepping forward, he made his way in between the pikemen and waved his sword side to side to keep the plague victims away. "Back! Back! Keep your distance!" The peasants flinched from his blade, but his attention was focused on just one of them. "You," He called out, "The girl with the scars. Get your clothes back on and come here."
Stephen
Maren Tockett
Barrmount Outer Perimeter

*I'm okay with dying,* She told herself, her hand clenched around the pale marble given to her, the only thing now on her person. Her feet sank into the powdery snow that scarcely covered the gravel of the grounds, her eyes watching the blade of the soldier in front of her as it already dripped from another person's life taken. She felt her tongue press against the roof of her mouth as she looked up to watch the soldier's face, his eyes lifeless, a man who was too used to murder. She took a deep breath, but... The sudden pain never came.

Glancing back, she watched as a man, pale as the snow around them, pushed the age by the tip of his sword, commanding *Her* To come forth. She looked to him with a confused look, her mouth remaining shut as she immediately obeyed, despite being under the blade of another soldier. She was very good at listening. 

She couldn't find her own clothes in the pile, so she settled for grabbing a loose tunic without the stains of the plague touching it. She pulled it over her head, the shirt sheathing her frail body from the cold as she turned, walking toward the new man with her hands at her sides and the marble tucked away in the loosed stitched pocket of the tunic.

Her feet were still bare, making small little prints in the snow, but they were only a shade of pink, not the blue that others were already turning in the frigid temperatures. 

She didn't speak, only looking up to him with her dirty, doe-like appearance, her hands slowly reaching up and playing with the ends of her ratted hair.
Ramiro
Shaydrin Skagerlly
Outside Castle Barrmount

Shaydrin stepped back to the foot of the wall, gazing down imperiously at her. He was tall, his thick cloak of dark hide covering a sinewy body. Dark-brown hair flowed in gentle waves from his crown down to a level with his chin, framing a proud, sculpted, kingly face. His eyes were polished jewels of cloud-grey, gentle though cold as they studied her face. He was a young-enough man, but as fine and statuesque as he was, there was a tired sheen under his eyes and stubble about his face.

"What's your name, girl?" He asked. Though his look was more refined than many of the other men from the Reaper's Skull, he had the same coarse, low-toned accent as all the other Skagerlly men.
Stephen
Maren
Outside Castle Barrmount

Maren looked up at Shaydrin with steady innocence, studying his face as she followed him to the wall, staying a respectful distance. She was entranced with his look. My, he looked like one of those princes in the stories, the ones who would save poor damsels. She toyed with her hair, slowly speaking when spoken to, as if not to trip over her words as they fell out of her mouth.

"My name is Maren," She said softly, but loud enough that she wasn't mumbling. Her voice matched her, really, with a soft lilt. She was almost like a fairy, standing there and fidgeting gently. 

Her accent was odd. It was northern. *Far* Northern. She held the pronunciations of Oldtongue, her words ending roughly as she watched him, blinking too little to be natural. She wanted to keep this new man in her sights, afraid that if she blinked, he would disappear.

"My last name is Tockett, but I don't want it." She said afterward, looking away, finally, as if she were immoral for saying such a thing. "Are you going to kill me, sir?"