Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-31049256-20180109050017/@comment-28358106-20180309033832

(Closing post)  ...And the misunderstandings, faux pas, and general undercurrents of sexual tensions come and go, for at least another hour.

For Eothred, it's a long hour.

Or, perhaps not. Gathering their arms and armor, barding their mounts, time flows very quickly for the Knight of Culwych, as he listens---for he has little else to say against twelve young ladies and their opinions. In truth, once things have settled, he does relatively little speaking, as the easy, confident speech of the Razorbacks flows like tavern talk. The piping, excited voices of the Twins punctuate them, and Odogaria---bless her innocent heart---is content to act the part of magus squire to Eothred, becoming a second set of hands he never knew he needed. To her credit, she keeps them well within the expectations of her Kobold nature.

And so, they assemble, and the few that are up this early watch them with admiring eyes. They beg to be accompanied. Rotha, atop her jet-black warboar, leather polished and barding glittering like early morning stars. The Razorbacks, on their own warboars, with faces like angels and yet among them the raw, roaring strengh of a thousand, and more. The ethereal Twins on their hallas, with neither saddle nor bridle, their places held by trust in the animals that bear them. Odogaria, on her white pony, nose-deep in a book, trusting to luck that her mount knows the way.

And Eothred, son of Eodan, Bann of the Cul Dales. Bright and bearing the fair folds of his cloak, emerald green and embroidered with the art of his home. His armor gleaming, that others might see him from afar, and admire, hisbhalberd high  Now, he rides with purpose, and with the blessing of lady fortune, may she show him her continued mercy.

He says a short prayer for his generous hosts, and wishes them well. With a spur, they are off at pace.

They chatter still, until they reach the end of the Vantulos grounds. The land becomes quiet and ponderous, and soon the buildings and fences of the grounds give way to the company of trees, and a wide, rolling dale.

Eothred hums, then begins to sing.

The others slow to a whisper and listen, their eyes fixed in wonder. The melody weaves a portent, and the fields before them echo. Rolling, rocky hills spread far, the morning sun not yet over the mountains. Mist clings to the far drops, a sea of white, a day's ride seen, and melds with the slate folds of the southern range toward which they ride...

The Hard Roads. Among these, their king; Mount Greylock, the gray claim of which has taken more lives than any battle fought in the last ten generations.

A path only for the desperate, or the destined. Within two days' ride, the small band will know which one they are.