"They'll sing songs of the Bastion, my lord. No doubt on that."
The words drifted through the relentless late-October rain, nearly drowned out by the rhythmic drumming of water on sodden wool. Lord Thalien, third-born of His Grace the Dog of Herculia, pulled his heavy cloak tighter, trying to shield his finery from the deluge as he navigated the muddy arteries of the camp.
Since the arrival of the Kakunian madman, the camp had become twice as loud and half as tolerable. The Prince had been moved by some sudden fit of hospitality, or perhaps a desperate need to keep their allies ahppy, and had honored them with a banquet that felt more like a circus.
Thalien wouldn't lie to himself; after three months of crouched misery in the brush, eating salted leather and killing whatever stray parties wandered inland and hanging the rest, a proper feast was a mercy. But the company? That was another matter entirely.
