<span style="color: #400000"><span style="font-size: 180%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Party Business;">dan cailin, on the northern borders of cadoania</span></span></span><br/><br/>Even the early birds were not up yet when the covers shuffled, the furs and pillows shifting softly under the strong, yet deathly pale frame of a man that rolled over, casting the satin blanket off himself. He slept like a northerner, without elaborate garbs, only in his breeches and tunic, and yet he felt no cold as he picked himself up to his elbows, cracking his neck. The avalanche of coal-black hair that fell from his shoulders, messy and unruly, collapsed back onto the covers, and for a moment, he just silently gazed at the nearest trophy on one of the walls, an impressive head of a wolf, severed by a single blow of a sword. It had been slain in a cruel winter, and he roasted its flesh and ate it juicy and rare, the way he favored his meals. With a sharp grin that set onto his pale, narrow lips, he shook his head, and set his bare feet onto the floor of the keep. The bedsheets were left messy, but he wouldn't bother tidying them. Dan Cailin had few servants, but Saffire was still sleeping; even he had enough courtesy not to disturb his lover in sleep.<br/>Southron men made quips on his behalf, that he beds a man, perhaps Brynnan himself is a woman, too, that he is odd, a disgrace and a shame; but his northern soldiers knew better than to strike fun of a man that could slay another with his bare hands without as much as flicking a brow. That was the reputation Brynnan had. He was the firstborn son of the wolf, and he lunged after his prey without hesitation, till his claws would sink into its back and he'd shred it into morsels. He knew no backing up, no retreat, and he was always victorious, though he was but a youngling when he was set onto the seat of his father. It was not Descan MaCeachthighearna that truly ruled the North - it was Brynnan MaFearghal, the Wolf, the bloodless beast that watered the crops of his people with the blood of his enemies. He was the wall that stood on the borders, the wall that protected the entire kingdom from the wild clansmen and raiders.<br/>All knew it. And he let it be known. Though he wasn't one for long talks, his visage was that of a warrior - a body of a sure build, wiry with thick strands of muscle under his alabaster-pale skin, sharp, unkind features, and eyes the color of blood. He saw that in the mirror as he stood before it, washing sleep off his face with his hard hands as cold water trickled down his cheeks in streams. It was almost as if he was wholly made of stone, taking a bath in icy water down in the cellars. Unlike Saffire, he had no love for hot water and bathing in a bronze or wooden tub. It was too bothersome. He followed the custom of his father, and in one of the deep cracks in earth that opened up beneath Dan Cailin, in a black crevice of swirling water that slowly streamed in and out, was where he begun his day. It was a natural well, upon which one of his ancient ancestors laid down the foundation of the castle, and though it was frigid, it cleansed him like nothing else.<br/><br/>Crawling out of the freezing water, he wrapped his body in the folded linens that had been waiting for his use right beside the deep well. He moved quickly, brushing the water off his skin and out of his hair, and it took but a few minutes for him to pull his clothes on. They were as black as night, a long tunic of linen, no silks, worn over similarly tough trousers, a simple black leather vest that reached down to his knees, parted at the sides to allow him free movement, a high collar reaching to the half of his neck, and in a scale-like pattern, the bloody maw of the MaFearghal wolf was set on his chest. His hands worked quickly as he trapped the edges of his black shirt in leather bracers, reaching all the way to his elbows, but unadorned, plainer than one would expect from the Second General. Similarly plain, yet tough and hard, were the black boots that he pulled on afterwards, fastening the buckles that would hold a pair of hardened leather shinguards over them, matching to the vambraces on his forearms. His hair, still wet and scruffy from the bath, was simply brushed over a few times. He accepted no help and no servants while getting ready - no one except for Saffire had even a slight chance to sight him in the morning.<br/>Finally content with his appearance, he fastened on a pair of pauldrons, which made his shoulders seem even wider than they seemed, lined with the thick hide of a wolf, as black as night. From those descended his heavy black cloak, which reached almost to his feet. His was a magnificent, yet fearsome visage; yet, the men in his keep had no reason to fear him, only hold due respect to their lord, no matter how young he was.<br/>War had made him old.<br/>War made the flowers of his soul and heart bloom and fade before their time, and where they once were now hung the bloody fruits of that untimely crop.<br/><br/>He dined briefly, a piece of meat with a side of herbs, juicy and almost rare, just like his mother was said to have done in her youth. She told him that she fed his father the raw heart of a wolf that he had slain, to make him strong... But to no avail. Sheanne was dead, and now the ruler was Brynnan. The son of the Wolf. He had no need for servants to arm him, and he had no need for more than his master-at-arms to hand him his practice sword. It was still only dawning as he stood amid the battling field, against the old man with his wispy black-and-grey beard.<br/>The master-at-arms, Kaye, was a tall, lean man, all bone and sinew, no fat, no mercy. His eyes were like daggers, but to that look, the wolf-lord only gave him a cruel laugh.<span style="color: #FFBFBF"> "Are you prepared to cross arms with me before the journey?"</span>he grinned at him. Kaye, holding his sword in preparation, nodded shortly. "It will be my pleasure, Ser." he agreed. The metal clinked and crashed, shrill sounds that echoed hauntingly in the field. It was his everyday practice, most days with the old man, though there were some that he tried the arm of his other knights and lords. His bannermen were no exception to that rule - as long as they were present and willing, they would spar with him. He would not let his body rest for a moment; to tend to court matters he needed a clear mind, and that he best achieved with a flush of adrenaline and a good fight. Beside, he had to hone his fighting prowess by every single passing day.<br/>The swords clashed together, hard and sharp. He was gifted with the strength of a bear, but the old master-at-arms was swifter, despite the almost dainty look in comparison to the Lord in the North. Brynnan might have been a beast, but Kaye was a viper, evading his attacks. Yet, to fend off a succession as strong as powerful as the next bolt of cleaving and stabbing cuts that the Wolf had unleashed, one would have to be nigh superhuman. The sword of the old man rang sharply, and thudded on the ground.<br/>Drawing a deep breath in, Brynnan grinned cruelly, remaining in his battle stance. It had been a good fight, that was for sure, but he was victorious. Again.<br/>It was Saffire's voice that disturbed him. As a right warrior, he did not yet turn from his opponent, but he paid the other man as much attention as he could afford. Oh, how he liked that soft voice, the innocent face, the snowy white hair. His eyes were glued him as he spoke, and he gave Saffire a definitive, slow nod.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"I'd appreciate a good piece of roast venison after you finally rose. It takes you longer than it takes me to hunt a deer down."</span>he jested harshly, but not without affection in that voice that so oddly combined sharpness and a silky undertone.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"Kaye, you are dismissed. Thanks for the spar."</span>he proclaimed in the direction of the sparse-worded master-at-arms, who nodded, picking his sword up, and disappearing off the practice field. He sheathed his own sword, looking Saffire in the eyes, and his provocative, cruel grin was replaced by a no less dangerous, but far more daring grimace.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"I like how you look today. Is that for the journey?"</span>he asked in a quiet voice.<br/><br/><span style="color: #400000"><span style="font-size: 180%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Party Business;">deorsh, capital city of cadoania</span></span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">"Insolence!"</span></span>the shrill sound of a scream echoed all the way through the Eastwatch tower, in which Geraint's private chambers were, resting like the nest of a hawk atop the castle's crown. It were chambers as luxurious as no others, with a heavy wooden bed, studded with steel, and draped over with pale white silks, surrounded by grey, white, and black furs, and beautifully carved furniture of wood. Yet, at the moment, Geraint saw nothing but the weapons, mounted on the walls. His blood simmered with rage as he paced his bedroom, pulling the silken gown, lined with fox fur, tighter around his shoulders, even as he twirled a knife between his fingers. Such insolence! His meal was long supposed to be there, waiting for the noble lord to rise! Wherever that serving girl was, whoever she was, and whatever had slowed her down, she would pay for such horrific insolence, she'd pay with her body, her blood, and the nonexistent dignity none of these peasants had! His hair was a curtain of snow, trailing long and reaching all the way almost to his knees, heavy, yet beautiful. But his beauty, the cold, royal facade, was marred by anger.<br/>His slave, the boy he had so painstakingly trained, came upon his sight once more as he burst into his small chamber. He roared a wake-up call at him, forcing him off the bed without a shred of empathy, and throwing in a hard punch for good measure, before dragging the boy through his personal chambers, and propelling him out of them with a well-aimed kick.<br/>It took long. Far longer than what he'd like, and he hoped that at least that good-for-nothing slave would move his accursed Kaelathian bones and get the stupid serving girl to come and bring him his meal! Otherwise, there would be heads to be had... Like that of the matron from the kitchen, the annoying fat woman, whom he did not like all that much, either. Frowning grimly, he sat down onto his bed, amid the thick covers of silk and beautifully embroidered pillows.<br/>At last, the girl arrived, tearing up, and shaking the tray in her hands. She slowly laid it onto the table, beside the noble lord, and knelt, begging for his forgiveness with her face pressed onto the floor. She wasn't his usual serving girl, this one was a dainty, pale thing, a freckled face, purplish hair, and pale eyes that were tearing up as she pleaded for mercy.<br/><br/>His alabaster-white hand took up the slice of white bread, with a thin spread of butter, and a side of gammon with herbs, placed in a nice crescent motion.<span style="color: #BFFFFF">"Take off your clothes."</span>he commanded the woman without impression. Her voice got stuck in throat, and she stared at him, tears running in rivers down her flushed cheeks. "M-lord, m-lord, please, I, please, m-lord, I-"<br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF">"That was a command! Take off your clothes, you whore!"</span>he shouted at her, pointing the thin knife he had in his hand just a moment straight at her. She gasped, and her shaking hands moved to undo the bodice, even as she sobbed, struggling to stop the tears, running down her face. The lord only sneered.<span style="color: #BFFFFF">"If you are going to take a century, I'll do it myself!"</span>he growled, and took her by the shoulder, ripping the bodice and dress off at once. He shredded her lower skirt, too, and tore the lower layers of her dress off , stripping the girl almost naked. His eyes were hard, but he relished in watching her squirm and suffer, he liked to see her fear him and quiver in terror. But the true terror was yet to come - when he took up the sword from beside his bed, and unsheathed it. It was a long and beautiful blade, pale silver, but so cruel, stained by the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike, without distinguishing.<br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF">"Do not dare do this ever again, wench!"</span>he shouted, and the sword swung down onto her.<br/>Yet, it only hit her with the flat side, square across her back, not enough to break it, but enough to leave a long red stripe across it, and even draw blood by the edges. He did so thrice, silent in fury, but his eyes burned with a bloodthirsty flame. Finally, he sheathed the long blade, and raising his foot kicked the crying and wailing girl straight out his bedroom.<br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF">"Dog."</span>he spoke to his slave, awaiting for his orders on his knees, his voice taking on an icy tone.<span style="color: #BFFFFF">"Clean up this mess after her."</span><br/><br/>He ate his meal in silence then, relishing at the deserved punishment the girl received. And he ate quickly, too; he needed to catch up on the time he lost, and as he sat upon his bed, with his legs crossed, he watched as his servants brought in a wooden tub of hot water, scented it with oils, and prepared his new, clean clothes. Only once the meal was finished, he let them do their service by scrubbing the dirt of his paper-pale skin, washing his hair, and brushing it till it shone like molten silver. It was an elaborate routine, and all of them twirled around him like bees around their queen till he was satisfied. Only then he allowed them to garb him in the pale white and silver silks that he had chosen to wear today -  long breeches with black rider's boots, reaching above his knees, and fastened to his three-reined belt with silver buckles, while his trousers, though quite loosely-fitting, were stuffed down them. His shit was a crisp white, and over it, he wore a doublet of silver silks, embroidered as if it were scales, all finished off with a knee-length leather-and-silk coat, lined with silver threads and laced at his side with a leather cord. He pulled his black leather gloves, matching his boots, over the sleeves of both his shirt and coat, and closed an exquisite silver chain, which would rest on the collar of his doublet, at the back of his neck.<br/>In the meantime, the servants braided his long silver hair. A few thin braids were made on the sides of his  head, while another few would come around and under his ears in elegant arches, or simply hang down over his shoulders, descending onto his chest. Those braids that weren't let free, together with the rest of his hair, were bound into a thick braid, reaching long beneath Geraint's waist, and placed over his shoulder. Finally, those annoying servants left him alone. For a brief instant, he took off his right glove, dragging lines of kohl around his icy eyes, and removing the evidence on his fingers with a small piece of cloth.<br/><br/>It was when he was preparing to leave the room to dine at last that his father's servant entered the room. The old man bowed deeply, and tough Geraint gave him an annoyed gaze, he seemed not to mind. "My Lord, I give my deepest apologies for intruding into your personal chambers this early in the morning hours, but I bear an important message from your father. You are to come to the library on His Grace's wish at once, for he desires to speak with you, my Lord." Bowing once more, he made his leave.<br/>The white-haired First General gave an annoyed sigh at the notion. He had not even had decent breakfast yet! How rude. But if his father wished for him to come to the library, he would not oppose. His father's wish was his command. He rose from his bed, dismissing Xerus for the time being with a wave of his hand, and fastened his longsword to his back. It was a magnificent weapon, and for obvious reasons, he would never leave it in his room like that, on the reach of those lowly peasants. He was proud of it, though it was cruel pale steel, so much alike to its owner. For Geraint, too, was a cold, callous man, without a shred of empathy or love in his frozen heart, only a bloodthirst and a ravenous hunger for power. His father was still strong, but that would not be long, and his brother was a weakling that bedded a filthy northerner. The same filthy northerner whose father had he himself executed on the steps of the throne room for treason and disloyalty! How ironic! That idiot Saffire and his barbaric lover would meet the same fate as soon as he would sit upon that chair which, for the time being, occupied his father. It would not be long.<br/>With a smirk on his pale lips, and a cool sheen in his equally icy eyes, he walked down the corridors, his boots clicking against the stone floors. His tempo was brisk, and he hesitated not for a moment before he threw the door of the library open, his long coat waving behind him like a snowy white flag.<br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF">"Father, you requested for my coming. I have arrived."</span>he spoke up, only then letting his hands fall back to his sides, and coming down to one knee before Descan.