The Storm.

Over the next several hours, ships begin to depart for the Fresgoe Isles. Most of the Beathan forces are part of the first voyage, with only a fraction of their host, commanded by Donald's companion and friend, Gordon staying behind. The Oro Elide accompany the Beathans, having proved themselves over and over in the campaign so far.

All the while, the unexpected rainfall continues to intensify. Having ventured back into the military camp just outside the town, you limp towards the awning of a nearby tent, hoping to find shelter from the downpour.

“Your Majesty!” a familiar voice calls out. Turning, you find Sritti besides you. Evidently endeavouring to avoid the rain as well.

“It's... good to see you again.” you tell her, prompting a friendly gap-toothed smile from the scout. She's still a little star-struck whenever you talk to her, you can tell. You can definitely work with that.

“This rain, it's almost unnatural.” Sritti sighs, flicking droplets of frigid water from her gloved hands.

“Is the weather here often like this?” you ask. “So changeable, I mean?”

“Not quite, Your Majesty.” Sritti answers. “To tell the truth, me and the other scouts are baffled by it. Seemed like it was gonnae be a clear day. Perfect for the ships.”

“You're not going ahead with the rest of your people?” you ask. “I'd have thought you'd be venturing ahead of the main ****, being a scout and all.”

“I'm to stay behind. Several of our scouts still haven't reported back from expeditions in the north-west.” Sritti responds. “You know, Your Majesty, I was just talking to Roland of Senna. The sell-sword who travelled up wi' you?”

“I'm... aware of him.” you respond, knowing whatever follows can't be good. “Why were you talking to him?”

“Lady Solla wanted to bid farewell to him, but didn't have the time, what with helping the Queen and everything.” Sritti responds. “She sent me in her place. When I was there, he asked about you.”

You idly recall Solla and your cousin had slept together, just before the battle in the Fens.

“Asked about me? What did he ask?” you say, shifting your weight onto your good leg.

“If I'd heard of you doing... well, anything. If you were busy. He said he had much to discuss with you, Your Majesty. If you ask me, you should send one of your people to see what he wants, right away.”

“Maybe I'll do that...” you lie. You scan your surroundings, looking for anything to talk about, rather than the uncomfortable subject of Roland.

You quickly alight on Hjordis. The defeated Jarl is noticeable, due to both her stature, and the way her cage has been placed in the centre of the camp, for all to see.

“Enough of this!” the giantess calls out, rattling the bars of her cell. She's soaked, dark hair plastered wetly to her forehead. It isn't long before Hjordis' caterwauling draws the attention of some of the few remaining Beathans, Gordon chief amongst them. “I want out of this cell, now!”

“That can be arranged, she-giant.” the lord offers, trying his best to look imposing, even as the imprisoned woman looms nearly two heads taller than him, and the rain lashes down on him. “All depends on what you have to say, you ken?”

“Get me somewhere dry, put a mead in my hand, and I'll talk.” Hjordis claims. “I simply cannot abide another minute in this fucking downpour!”

“Fine. Move the Jarl to the castle, lads.” Gordon says, giving his men the nod. “Just a word of warning, Deanian. You fail to talk, and fail to say what we want to hear at that, you'll have far worse to deal wi' than a little rain.”

Hjordis accepts the warning, putting her hands through the specially designed hole in her cell, allowing the Beathans to cuff her before she is removed.

Something about Hjordis' pleas strikes you as off. She was a resilient woman. You'd have thought it'd take more than a little rain before she gave in to her captors.

“Let's get to the fortress, lads.” Gordon says, huddling beneath his fur cloak. Evidently, he's just as eager to be inside and warm as the giantess is.

You push the thought from your mind. Anyone would be eager to get out of this rain, let alone someone in a cage. It's verging on a storm now, the unending torrent swiftly turning last night's snowfall into a grey slush.

“Spirits, it's comin' down somethin' fierce.” Sritti curses.

“Remind me, which one of your Spirits do I have to blame for this?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the deluge.

“That'd be the Lord of the Lake, Your Majesty!” the brunette responds. “It's said he controls all bodies of water in Beatha.”

You idly imagine that somewhere, the Lord's had his day ruined, just as you and Donald did to the Lady of the Mountain, a year ago now.

Bidding farewell to Sritti, you limp through the camp. Even with the surpassingly short distance to your tent, you enter soaked through.

You pull on some dry clothes and make for the nearest vessel of wine, listening to the intensifying wind, the frenzied patter of raindrops on the canvas above you.

The wine does little to calm your nerves, even in increasing quantities. A few minutes pass, the solidity of the fortress' walls, of a roof over your head seeming a better prospect with every passing moment.

Eventually, with one last glug of red to bolster your courage, you venture outside, hoping to scurry into the fortification, to take shelter with Gordon, Hjordis and the others.

What you behold as you stagger outside, nearly bowled over by the wind, suggests you're not going to make it that far.

Past the town, a great wave sweeps westward, from a valley, towards the sea. It seems to take up most of the horizon.

A fleet of ships follow in its wake, propelled along at a freakish, unnatural pace by the wind in their sails. You can only estimate, but you reckon the fleet to be greater in size than the one the coalition had just departed the harbour in. Much greater.

It's then that you see the sails. Blood red. And on the ship in the centre, a leviathan that dwarfs any vessel you'd seen, that you'd heard of, a serpent, stitched in gold.

Einar.

The oncoming crush of ice water, no doubt summoned by the mage-king's magic, is nearly upon you now. It passes over the camp like it's not even there, crushing tents, crumpling barricades.

You don't even have time to curse or cry out in terror before it's on you, sweeping you off your feet, carrying you along into the murky and unforgiving depths.