<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/>Savagery of the North. Those words rang through his skull, reverberating in endless echoes, and his smile slowly became a snarl, revealing his teeth under his pale lips. The South was prejudicial and hypocritical, but Brynnan, the Lord in the North, the Shield of the kingdom, the only thing that protected those southerners from the raids of the Crerian clansmen, would not bear this sort of insolence. He would not have himself, or anyone of his court, the less Saffire, who was not only one of his men now, but also the man that he laid beside at night, and the man with whom he shared almost everything, be insulted. No matter that the source of the insult was the king himself. Descan had done him enough wrong, and he would bear no more. The fact that he accused his father of treason and executed him, even when Sheanne was the man that protected the whole kingdom from the savage northerners - the<span style="font-style: italic">true</span>savages - was infuriating. He'd have no more of that.<br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF">"We'll dine in the Great Hall. With the wolves. I'm bringing the wolves with me to Deorsh, whether His Grace likes it, or not."</span>he proclaimed coldly, his hand clasping the wolf's head at the pommel of the dirk that hung by his right hip. The wolves were the beasts his mother had brought from the far, far north, or rather, their great-grandchildren, great grey things with teeth as sharp as arrowheads, and fire in their blood, just like Ingithe herself. The woman was a terror to the lord's court, as much as it had been a horror to her; yet, for this time, she had agreed to accompany them. Ingithe, daughter of Jorund, was coming, together with her Crerian northmen, men wild as the wolves they kept at their feet. Brynnan, in their fashion, had taken one of the grey beasts that had been born in a litter four years ago, to his. The wolf came rushing out of the doors at once, with his bright yellow eyes shining like gems in its dark fur as it trotted towards him. Silent. Always silent.<br/><br/>Before Brynnan would manage to speak to Saffire further, one of the guardsmen came rushing behind the wolf, accompanied by another two younger pups, which obviously unnerved him to no end. He had trouble catching his breath, an old man with thinning steel-grey hair and a spade-shaped beard, garbed in simple blacks and grays - like most of the north. "My Lord! My Lord! Lady Ingithe had arrived and is waiting in the Great Hall with her court!" he called out at him. Brynnan regarded him with cool eyes, which then slipped onto the wolves. Off course. If those were there, mother must have come down from Dan Deire, her keep far, far off in the north, which she had made her home after Sheanne's death. She rarely visited Brynnan in Dan Cailin anymore; only on some rare occasions did she consent to leave the mountain keep and with a few of her most trusted men stay in Brynnan's stronghold. Every time she visited, the woman roused the whole castle, and the city behind its tall walls as well.<br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF">"Very well."</span>he exclaimed, cool in voice as one of his hands rested atop Saffire's shoulder.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"We shall dine with my mother. Spare us the courtesies and tell her I am on my way."</span>With that, he sent the man away.<br/><br/>To Saffire, he gave a long look. His eyes, those ruby eyes that took on such a strange tint in sunlight, looked him over carefully. Mother had seen him before; yet, what she thought of him she left to herself only. Like most things.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"She and her northmen will be coming with my court to Deorsh. That means more wolves."</span>he spoke, shortly, crisp in voice. And he turned on his heel, leading Saffire into the keep once more, and through its dark, cool stone corridors into the main hall.<br/>The door opened up beneath his hands as if it were made of parchment, not hard oaken wood, and he entered as he always did - accompanied by the sound of clanging steel as the plates of his armor rang against each other in his way, feet pounding on stone, with confidence, with nobility and pride alike. Yet, his face was emotionless, as it often was outside combat. Not even for his mother did the Wolf Lord warm up.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"Mother."</span>he spoke.<br/>Ingithe stood amid the hall. She was a tall woman, half hard steel and half beast, and to call her a lady would be an insult. She stood tall, taller than many men, with a mane of fiery hair that descended on her shoulders in three thick braids, bound by leather cords. She had his eyes, crimson, only a shade darker than her hair, and she wore no lady's dress, but a hauberk of chainmail over a leather jerkin, tall boots, and a bearskin cloak, hanging heavy off her shoulders. Around her were her clansmen; many of the men were old, but they were seasoned warriors with a dangerous look to them, the tall and the short alike. Their hair was long, and not one of them was shaven. One of them was a woman, smaller and broader than Ingithe, but no less fierce-looking, another a one-eyed old man, carrying a great longsword at his back; one earless man paced up and down the hall around his liege, his large hands set at the hilt of the axe he held.<br/>"Brynnan." she responded. The wolves at her feet looked up at the sound of his name; they were old things, scarred, but mighty even on the first look. One bitch was so big that its shoulders were past Ingithe's waist when they both stood straight.<br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF">"It is a pleasure to welcome you in Dan Cailin again. I received word that you wish to travel with my company south for the birthday celebration of His Grace."</span>he questioned her, not stepping any further towards her than the fifteen feet of distance at best that was between them. She gave him a short nod of her head, two of the braids spilling over her shoulders. "I do indeed. That is why I have arrived." she confirmed that.<br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF">"Very well."</span>Brynnan bowed his head to her, his long hair sliding off over his shoulders, and he stepped forth.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"Prepare the meal for us. We shall dine, and resolve these matters in the meantime. Mother, send your men away. I wish to speak to you privately. Saffire, you stay."</span>he commanded.<br/><br/>The bearded men, Ingithe's company in their leather and mail, begun wordlessly ushering from the hall, leaving with the sound of steel clanging against stone. The wolves, however, remained - many of them ran over to Brynnan, who ignored them, and Saffire, too, sniffing the two men and brushing against their legs. One of them leaped up at Brynnan, putting its front paws at his shoulders, and yellow eyes gazed into red. Noiselessly, the wolf then dropped back down, and trotted towards Ingithe again.<br/>"You should ask him to finally give you what he owes you." the woman proclaimed. "Your father's bones lay among that southron castle restless. It is a disgrace to the dead." She turned on her heel, and took her place at the high table, the wolves following her. A frown set at Brynnan's face, and he gestured for Saffire to follow.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"Bones won't return honor that was stained. You know what his son told me. I piss on your honor, that was what he told me. You know whose bones I need for the dead to be at rest, but I cannot have those. I will not ask anything of him. I won't crawl at his feet to get what he owes me! I am the Lord in the North. I will <span style="font-style: italic">not</span> shame myself so."</span>His voice was cool and crisp, and once more he clasped one hand around Saffire's shoulder.<br/>His lover knew well of the dislike the Fearghal house held for Geraint. He shamed them, and the North did not forget. Nor did it forgive. And even less so did Ingithe and her wild men. They loathed the heir to the throne for all those years, and any meeting between those was not a gleeful one. Yet, Brynnan hated his rival and nemesis even more so. He was shamed. Ingithe and her clansmen could not understand that - they were wild things, and they knew little of the court life, only of battle and survival in the cold, cruel north was their wisdom. But he was a Lord. He had responsibilities. One of those was a name, a name that he had to protect and honor that he had to fight for.<br/><br/>He set himself into the high chair, before the top of the table, right opposite Ingithe. Just a few moments after, the servants entered with their meals; they had to scramble up and divide what was made for two between three, but it did not seem that it was too much of a problem. The venison was steaming still as it was placed before each one of them, but Brynnan seemed to have lost his appetite. He frowned grimly, and by the corner of his eye, he gave Saffire a long look.<span style="color: #FFBFBF">"I will demand the place of the First General to be given to me. And I have enough to back my claim up."</span>he proclaimed, silently, but there was no mistaking to that exclamation.<br/>By backing up, off course, he meant Saffire himself.<br/>In public, and most of all before his mother, affection had no place. He was the Wolf-lord; no matter how much love and attraction he felt, he had to keep it under cover and concealed. Yet, deep inside, he was annoyed that what was supposed to be a peaceful breakfast was broken by Ingithe's arrival. The gods knew that even lords needed peace.<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/>Rising gracefully from his bow, Geraint swept the long braid of white hair aside, and took his place where his father had gestured him to sit. He kept his back straight, a posture as proud as ever, though garbed all in white, he was as cold as a winter storm. That was well fitting, taken into account his personality. Geraint was a son that made his father love him, but the lesser lords were wary of him, and the peasants feared him and loathed him in secret. It was widely known, though rarely said, that he was a cruel and cold creature. Yet, he gave Descan no reason to feel any dislike for him. He was a son that any father could just wish for. Proud, undefeated, presentable, obedient even. At least, that was how he made himself look.<br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF">"I have grown fond of her. She is comely and the people love her."</span>he responded, placing his hands in his lap.<span style="color: #BFFFFF">"She will make a splendid wife and queen, and bear me many sons and daughters."</span>A cold smile curled his lips, but his eyes remained pale and cruel. He didn't love Hayanne. She was just another woman to bed, garbed nicer and with better manners than the ones in brothels, but he didn't long for her. An object of interest, nothing more. He wanted her like that, he wanted her admiration, her awe, he wanted her to be a jewel on his crown once he is crowned, he wanted her at his feet ready for every command, to bear children that would ascend to the throne after his death, and to look presentable. Once she ages, dies, or he is displeased with her, he can just replace her. A queen had no power. A king had all of it.<br/><br/>His eyes lit up at the sight of food, and he moved his chair somewhat closer to the platter as he reached for a knife, skewing it into the meat and taking off a long slice of roast mutton. He ate slowly, enjoying the food, the rich juicy flavor of the meat, all of it in one; yet, it did not change the fact that food was merely sustenance to him, a man that lived for conquest and battle, to conquer his enemies, and see them run from him. For a moment, he lowered the knife, and with his fingertips wiped the juice from his lips, the soft leather of his gloves glistening for a moment.<span style="color: #BFFFFF">"From what I have seen, the preparation for the tourney are going well. I wish to participate in the melee <span style="font-style: italic">and</span> jousting."</span>Now, that was the moment a smile truly appeared on his face. The Wolf-lord was coming, and he'd use every opportunity he had to shame him. He'd unhorse him AND hand him defeat on the tip of his sword, Second General or not. And his brother... Ah, he could already picture the look on Saffire's face when he'd defeat that savage lover of his. A look that would bring him pleasure to see.