Duke Farhel Mortron

Duke Farhel Mortron, a rather lean man wearing a fade burgundy coat, came walking in, guided by two of your royal guards (mercenaries from Versay). The man was rather old, possibly sixty-five, yet he stood confidently enough to garner your interest. A proud lord of nothing? indeed that is interesting. As he walks, he notice an ever slight gimp on his left leg. A war wound perhaps? or a damaged limb in an effort to restore fertility to his land? Whichever it was, it certainly did not deter him from speaking up as he approached you.

"Your grace" he said with a surprisingly dignified tone, giving a deep bow of respect. His hair was kept short and grey, but some asymmetry indicated that he must have done it himself.

You wave for him to continue with a forgiving smile. At least you hoped it was forgiving, you do not want to come off as harsh to this poor man.

"Yes. Right. I have an offer for you, your majesty. An offer that you may refuse, but please take into consideration the information I sent to your adviser" he said, his voice quivering as his nerves were getting the best of him. sweat began to stream.

"Go on" you say, trying to not put off the man further with a silent act.

"Well, King Gerib, I am offering my daughter Shasa as a candidate for matrimony" he says this avoiding eye-contact, as if he knew that what he was asking for would be impossible.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Duke Mortron. For my first wives, I would need those of high birth in order to validate the claim of my heirs, and your daughter-forgive me-is simply not of high enough birth to offer a proper heir" you say this as politely and sympathetic as you can, after all, the man did travel a reasonably far distance to your palace. The Duke only shook his head.

"Under normal circumstances, King, that would be a problem, but my girl, Shasa, is barren" he says, his eyes reddening and beginning to water. You hated old men crying, it just hurts to see it. "She is all I could muster as an heir to my line, and she cannot even bear a blood heir. Please, your majesty, my house will die before it makes its mark on the world. At least take her as your concubine to perhaps preserve the name in some sense of prestige or else my ancestors worked hard for a failure such as I" at this point the man was wailing, the poor wretch.