Paetar Krinwulf, First of his Name, High Sentinel of the Eastern Territories, Paramount of the Lords above the Plains, Steward of Old Thaam and King of Linden, had remained silent while the angry crowd voiced their grievances. His head cocked to one side when his trusted advisor spoke, although his thin face gave no indication as to what he was thinking.<br/><br/>Barth looked from his father to the peasants, worry encapsulating his mind as he recalled the way the farmers had spoken out. They were impassioned and clearly desperate, but they were also poorly prepared for this meeting. The elder Krinwulf was ruled, almost entirely, by his own arrogance, and as such things were likely to go southward in a hurry.<br/><br/>"You are peasants," the king said, finally breaking his long silence. "Farmers, workers, toilers. Your hands are callused, your backs bent, and your skin is tanned and weathered from your time in the fields beneath the sun. But do not think your king has not the time for you," he added, his voice even and smooth, as ever. "You have been permitted entry into my castle, and you have gained a personal audience with me, which is a privilege granted to few. But do not," he went on as his eyes and tone both hardened, "presume to give<span style="font-style: italic">me</span>orders."<br/><br/>A thick silence fell over the room, during which a number of the peasants fidgeted uncomfortably under the king's cold scrutiny. "Normally I would have you flogged, for your disrespect, but I can see that your need is great." The gleaming, bright silver of the jewel-encrusted crown atop Paetar's head was a perfect match for the hilt of the sword he wore at his side. The value of the two items easily exceeded that of all the farmers' lands combined. "Go back to your homes. A group will be heading southward, to handle this problem. And it shall be led by my own kin," he added, fixing Barth with a smile bereft of any fatherly warmth.<br/><br/>"Let no one within the bounds of my rule say that I do not care for my people."<br/><br/>The peasants knelt in unison, declaring their gratitude, and Barth glanced sideways at Ausan. Always the pieces on the board, they were, moved along by the wills of their fathers. They were puppets, the both of them, but with any luck they'd one day be able to cut the strings.<br/><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>"My backside is sore."<br/><br/>Barth raised an eyebrow as he looked over at the man riding alongside him. Ausan was on his right, as usual, but on the other side rode perhaps the only other friend the young prince possessed.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"What you do in your free time is your own business, Olin. But next time maybe try to rein it in the day before a long ride." </span><br/><br/>The man's mustache fluttered slightly as he snorted, the grin forming on his lips in spite of himself. "It's from the riding, you arse of a prince, and I'll have you know I was with a lady last night."<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"Aye? Who was the unfortunate lass? Did she lose a bet?" <br/></span><br/>The small towns of his father's kingdom had given way to open, airy countryside rife with the smells of fertilizer and grass. They were a small group, only four of them, but soldiers so far from the capital were clearly a rare sight. The nearest outpost was far to the east, where the frost of the Deadlands merged with trees and signs of life that could no longer be found in what was once Thaam and its surrounding territories. Many a field worker stopped what they were doing to watch as the group rode by, their mouths open and gaping at the display of armor and steel. The horses were also among the best of what could be procured in Linden - being a prince, or the companion of one, didn't come without its perks.<br/><br/>"Abigail. The bright-eyed young woman with the love for poetry and tales of the battlefield," Olin answered, his bearded visage taking on a distracted kind of look. While Barth's sword was at his side, as was his custom, Olin never looked quite right when his longsword wasn't jutting out over his right shoulder. He enjoyed the favorable range the long blade gave him, in spite of the greater weight.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"Hah! As if you could provide her with either,"</span>Barth answered, his smile fading as a certain detail occurred to him.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"A friend of Fiona's, isn't she?" </span><br/><br/>"She is."<br/><br/>A silence fell as the subject turned to the woman Barth was currently involved with - or at least, at times it seemed so. She was certainly beautiful, and her father definitely approved, but something in their meetings seemed off. Perhaps it was because Ausan hated the woman and seldom bothered hiding it. In any case, the prince felt his attention drawn to the road by activity somewhere up ahead.<br/><br/>The road was congested by a number of people, all facing their direction; word had spread quickly of their arrival, it seemed. They didn't need to look very closely to know the group waiting for them was made up of many of those who'd visited the king. Torvald and Lancet rode ahead, announcing Barth and requesting the directions. Barth wouldn't have minded doing so himself, but if they wanted to observe the protocols he wouldn't stop them. He smirked at Ausan as the two men, older than any of them, scolded the peasants for delaying the son of the king. He was sure they were adequate soldiers, and well trained, but it was their loyalty to Paetar that kept them in Barth's company. It was a relief to him that he was able to have two of his friends with him as well.<br/><br/>The crowd dispersed, and the two returned, Torvald indicating the fields off to one side. "The interlopers have set up tents over yonder, Prince Barth. There are many of them, the farmers say, and their numbers grow with each passing day."<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"So they've made a refugee camp for themselves. Is it only the one location?"<br/></span><br/>"Started out as a few smaller groups, but they've each grown," replied Lancet, who was wiping beads of sweat from his brow beneath the gleaming helm. "Now they're all formed up in one big camp, and it's encroaching on the land of at least three different farmers."<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"Just three? I expected more, given the display in the castle."<br/></span><br/>"These people live far from the capital, and they look out for each other. Plus, three farms can easily become many more if this continues," chimed in Olin, who was peering off towards the supposed camp location with narrowed, squinting eyes. "And I fear what may happen if it can't be resolved quickly. Peasants have taken up arms before, to preserve their land."<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"They have, and they will again,"</span>Barth replied as he kicked his horse into motion, heading off the road in the direction indicated by Torvald.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"But not this time." </span><br/><br/>The camp was indeed large - it was also more of a small settlement than anything else. Children played in the space between the tents, which were all made of a brown, leathery material that was likely a hide of some sort. There were a number of small fires, and snatches of song reached them from somewhere near the center of the site. The language of the Plainspeople was both haunting and beautiful, the strange words rising and falling in a rhythm that was impossible for Barth to decipher.<br/><br/>They swung down from their mounts and approached the camp; it wasn't long before they were noticed, and the singing was stifled as a considerable amount of worried whispers broke out. A man, brown skinned with dark eyes like the others, came forward, his expression betraying how nervous he was. His hair was long, reaching his waist in two thick braids, and his clothes were reminiscent of the material making up the tents behind him. He was unarmed, but behind him two other Plainsmen stood close by, clutching shortbows and eyeing the newcomers warily.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Dych chi'n dod yn heddychlon?"</span><br/><br/>Barth stared at him for a moment, blinking as the bizarre language washed over him without leaving much comprehension in its wake.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"The Northern Tongue. Do you speak it?" </span><br/><br/>The man faltered for a moment, then made a face that suggested he was in some kind of pain as he spoke again. "I… yes. Can speak. You come to here with peace?"<br/><br/>"You are speaking to Prince Barth Krinwulf, heir to the throne of Linden, the nation upon which you are encroaching. Therefore, savage, you will address him as su-"<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"Relax, Torvald,"</span>Barth interrupted, but the words had already sent the man's uncertainty into fear. The bowmen behind him stared with wide eyes, and at that moment the prince saw that a great many onlookers had assembled behind the first line of tents.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"There are no savages here. Just people. And I'm only here to talk,"</span>he added in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.<br/><br/>There was movement, and he looked over to see a woman sprinting forward, horror on her face, as a little girl escaped her arms and ran out from between two tents, right for them. Barth watched with great amusement as the child, giggling madly, ran over to Ausan and pressed a braided ribbon into her hand, beaming happily up at her.