<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold">General Wolfhart</span> // <span style="color: #FFFF80">On the outskirts of Scarborough...</span></div><br/>Three now.  Two missing, one dead, and still no answers.<br/><br/>Scarborough was at peace, and despite militia being his primary function, war was the last thing he wanted.  His mind twisted and turned with possible explanations- but he was turning up with none, and the worry kept him up at night.  He'd finally resigned to a ride around the patrol route in the quiet darkness, alone with his thoughts.  His scouts knew the perimeters and the wilderness beyond them better than anyone else, including himself.  They couldn't have gotten lost.  For all he knew, they, too, could also be dead, and he just hadn't found their bodies yet.<br/><br/>Bren arrived at the site where the first body was found.  There were definitive signs of a struggle: blood  in various locations, displaced dirt, and the scout's hunting knife was found some few yards away.  No animal did this, it was certain.  He contemplated using the blood to divine the identity of the attacker, but he resisted.  There had to be a way to do this without reaching into that dark place again.  The last thing he needed was the touch of otherworld on his person.  He hadn't used that kind of magic in well over a decade, and he wasn't about to begin again.  Scarborough deserved a better general than one which resorted to witchcraft, and he was determined to give it just that.<br/><br/>Bitterly, he continued along the fringe.  He met with two of his soldiers, whom both halted their steeds and stood at attention as he approached.<br/><br/>“Ser!” they acknowledged in unison, “Nothing to report, Ser.”<br/><br/>He was uncertain if he was expecting anything.  Ever since the first scout had gone missing, he gave the orders for all patrols to travel in pairs.  Then, one such pair of scouts simply disappeared.  Each passing day he feared more of his men would go missing, but thankfully, it hadn't happened.  Yet.  He'd tightened the patrol routes and put more men on them, but still found himself worried it would not help the situation.<br/><br/>“Stay sharp,” he told them both pointedly.  “Carry on.”  Frankly, Bren cared for his men.  He hated to see them as stressed as he was now, but he didn't want to lose any more of them, and for now, it was all they could do.  The safety of Scarborough was compromised, and he'd given the guard captain as many men as he could spare.  That was one of the perks of being at peace- there were soldiers at hand.  He feared that may not last long, however, and the question still gnawed at his mind:<span style="font-style: italic">Who was their enemy?</span><br/><br/>The dawn was slowly crawling over the rolling hills, and Bren decided it might be time to return to the castle.  He knew Allistair would want to meet with him over breakfast.  He wished he had good news.  He left his stallion with the stablehands, then retreated into the castle through the side-entrance into the kitchen.  The food smelled incredible, but his appetite was waning.  Ever since the news of the scouts, he'd been nary able to sleep, let alone down a proper meal.  He needed a shave badly, and dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes.<br/><br/>Without a word, he seated himself at the long table, folding his fingers together to rest his forehead on them as he gazed down at his gilded plate, tired eyes fixed on nothing in particular.  He thought he might have had a solution by now, and it vexed him that he didn't.  The investigation party in charge of the missing scouts had not yet found any leads, and with each passing day, it seemed more and more hopeless.  He would like nothing more than to see his scouts home, safe and sound, but he feared the worst.