The War Continues.

As the next week or so passes, the coalition forces prepare to move on from Airgid Carran. Einar's forces are still running rampant over much of the north-western portion of Beatha.

While the Serpent King himself is difficult to pin down, reports of his dread fleet pouring in from all along the coastline, far less ambiguous is the invading army's main horde. A sizeable **** of raiders, cut-throats and soldiers lead by one Jarl Hjordis. You remembered the half-giantess well.

She had truly distinguished herself in the opening weeks of the war, bearing down on Beathan forces like a tidal wave, and proving every bit as destructive.

As the days passed, scouts streamed back into the castle, bearing news that left Beathan and Itherian alike on edge. Black banners, bearing Hjordis' family sigil, a giant triumphant amongst a field of the dead, had been sighted on the trails. The Giantess was coming, with a mind to do what Siggi the Whelp had failed to accomplish.

You saw less of Kara than you would have liked over the following days and weeks. It seemed shoring up defences and readying the Beathan warriors for a fight assuredly more punishing than the first was far from conducive to a honeymoon.

Still, you found a few sources of succour, Solla and Sritti amongst them. It seemed that their association with Donald had left them intimately familiar with a king whose appetites stretched far beyond matrimony.

You're breaking your fast one morning, clustered with the other nobles in a small dining hall, when yet another Beathan scout bursts in, seeking his king.

“Your Grace!” the scout pants. “Signs from the south! A caravan approaches the castle!”

“A caravan? What flags do they fly? Deanians?” Donald asks.

“Nae, sire.” the scout says, collecting himself. “These are no men of Dean.”