Not now, I have a headache...

You yank your hand out of the Mage's grip, taking a large step backwards as you shake you head... half in disappointment, half to push out the fantasies that were forming in your thoughts. "Vessa, I am your King." You remind her, brushing away the feeling of her caress before folding your arms over your chest. "And I will not be manipulated like this. You should be ashamed of yourself." It hurts your heart to say this to her, but duty and honor demand you keep your urges under control. After all, lust can make a man just as foolish and youthful folly.

Her lips tighten, body stiffening as she shrinks before your words. "... you're right, Your Majesty. That was inapppropriate of me," a hint of stutter entering her words as she offers you a stiff curtsy. "I should probably retire early, give my mind time to rest... with your permission of course." She keeps her head turned down to hide her expression, finally reaching up to try to sooth the pain in your head.

"You may leave," you say emotionlessly, the Lady taking quick, clattering steps across the stone floor and into the corridors, giving you the privacy to slump in your throne. Alone with your thoughts, you stare up into the skylight and ponder why there isen't some kind of vetting system to determine what matters truely need the Monarch's attention. At least half the issues you had to face today could have been handled by some moderately informed minister. To have to push through this, day after day... you can understand how the weight of the regency had worn Lord Gilbert down so, biting your lips in guilt as it dawns on you you're about to hand it to him all over again.

You make a mental note to give him a well-deserved vacation once you return from the Craigs. You hear that seaside air for the joints...

The journey north was not an exciting one... but with hundreds of trained soldiers watching over you night and day, it could have hardly felt more secure. Byyou, Sir Garret, and Duke Oliver ride side halfway to the front of the procession: dressed in chain shirts and greaves beneath your cloths, the comforting weight of your longsword on your back, observing the wide, fertile lands of your realm. By night, the colum comes to a stop in the open fields; sending light riders ahead to exchange your coin from bread and meat as the soldiers sit around the campfire, swapping stories and playing dice with each other. You laugh along with them to the cleary-embellished tales of what mysterious and monsterious things they'd seen on patrols through the forest or the nights they'd spent on city-watch, learning just how light-hearted the stiff, no-nonsence knights can be when there isen't an immediate threat or orders from their commanders.

Eventually, though, the number of farms starts to thin and the weather grows windier... less welcoming then the temperate climate of the capital as you grow closer and closer to the unforgiving Craigs. Finally, on the 10th day, Duke Oliver points to a hill rising above the road: tall but old stone walls standing against the sun, crude wooden huts clinging to it like moss. "This is Castle Medden, my home." He informs you. "A simple place, perhaps, compared to your Palace... but she's not been stormed or starved for 200 years. And I intend to keep it that way for 200 more." The men's spirits seem to perk up at the sight, talking longingly of real beds (and whores to warm them), as the tired mounts slowly trot the last mile or so to the simple, but sturdy structure. The castle guard patroling the walls: brandishing long spears and bows and whose red uniforms dirty and worn from long use, shout out greetings as they see the royal procession: a dozen or so Vismarkian natives among your men answering in kind. By the time you reach the gatehouse, the portcullus is already lifted: the three of you riding in side before a pair of young, mud-stained stableboys come to relieve you of your mounts, leading them away into the empty stable-stalls.

"My Lord... praise the gods you've returned," A slightly hunched figure approches your party from the open doors of the main keep, slowly turning his head towards Sir Garret. Looking down, you can see something flick from side to side: the skirted tail of an equine beastfolk, his eyes tightly squinted and ringed black from exhaustion. "I've done my best to keep things it order, but they've just kept coming..."

"Hold now," you raise a hand open palmed, instructing him to stop. "Slow yourself. You're begining to slur your words."

"You'll have to pardon my steward, your Majesty," the Duke apologizes, helping straighten the horse-man's stature. "His work ethic can sometimes get in the way of his health. Now, Sebastain..." He gently presses up on the exhausted creature's chin. "Tell me what the problem is."

"The peasents... so many..." he breaths deeply between words, finger trembly as he points to outside of the walls... the dozens of crude shakes you'd rode past on your way in. "From the settlements in the Craigs. They speak of dragon-kin... 50 at least, burning entire villages when they refused to surrender the grainery. I've sent our knights out on constant patrol, trying to keep some sense of order... but its not enough. They keep asking where their lord is, if he's abandoned them but..." he lets out a long, relaxed exhale, leaning forward on his walking stick. "Now there will finally be some rest."

"Don't fear, old man," Sir Garret says proudly, drawing his sword and planting it into the dirt in front of him. "The King's chivalry will drive the raiders back into their caves where they belong." You let out a surprised huff as he gives you a forceful, brotherly slap on the back. "And King Bryce's sword shall see this so-called Emperess pays for he crimes against his treasured subjects." The horse-man sinks to his knees before you, his "Your Majesty..." almost too soft to hear.

"Your lord's borders will be secured, stewerd. I swear my honor on that. Now Rise" you order, palming the top of his walking stick. "And rest, the Royal army can take it from here. Just point us in th direction of the most recent dragon-kin sighting." Pushing himself back to his feet, the old workhorse points his stick to the northwest. Keeping the direction in your mind, you draw your own blade; raising it up to the sky in that direction as you walk beneath the gatehouse, letting out a shrill whistle to gather the attention of your men.

"Come, brave warrior of Itheria. We haven't a moment to waste; there are dragons to slay!" You bellow, trying your best to sound inspirational. Though the responce isen't entirely enthusiastic, at least you don't hear any complaints; the men who'd come down returning to their saddles. You close your eyes, letting the slight anti-climax wash over you. Command, it seems wasen't always as glorious and inspirational as the stories would have one believe