King Hurmar sits upon his throne, looking bleakly at the door far in front of him. Around the throne room are a few of his subjects; some knights, some servants, and others ordinary citizens; all of which managed to retreat here before the battle. He can hear the sounds of combat; the clashing steel, the ripping armor, the cries of pain...the thuds of corpses. All in his castle--his own castle!--and there was nothing he could do. Most of his soldiers are out enjoying the festival, clueless to the assault on their home. It isn't their fault, though; they were told to be loose and enjoy themselves. If only he knew this would happen...<br/><br/>Next to him, looking fearful, is his son, Roland. He also looks out to the doors, unsure of his fate, and of his father's fate. There was no explanation to this attack; why Ischim? Why now? What did Bruthis do wrong, if anything? There are no answers; only questions. Tightly, he holds his Wind tome, not wanting to use it, but ready to do so if he has to. He then looks up to his father, looking into his pale, distrought face for answers.