[TT] An undead army, a vengeful queen, a field of flowers to set this scene.

...

"Your Majesty, the remnants of the ghoul horde have been lead as instructed. No casualties thus-far reported along the vanguard." The scribe bowed low in the throne room, nose pressed towards the worked stone below. "As instructed, our armies await them. They will act upon your commands: the network has quills set for ink should you only give the word."

"Good news, for a change." Seated high upon the throne of gold and intricately carved wood, the Royal Heir stared down like a hawk eyeing a rabbit below. "Have the Holy Knights promised by the Church arrived as well?"

"All but the final few divisions, your Highness." Another bow came almost naturally, "It seems that many have been engaged in the Goblin hunts, not yet to return from field for their assignments."

"Are we missing numbers of major concern?" Leaning in over her throne, the jewels and precious metals of the crown which rested atop pale skin seemed to glow. In the light of the stained glass windows, such a scene could hold most men hostage of its own power. Forcing his eyes downward as the instant lapsed to seconds, the Scribe did his best to provide a hurried answer. "Do the Generals believe this to be a danger to our forces?"

"No, your highness." Robes once again draped the floor as his head bowed. "At most it comes to an inconsequential sum of those men not yet arrived. The only worthwhile mention is the lacking of twenty Holy Archers, but I've been promised those will arrive before the battle's start."

"How oddly cooperative of them..." The smile that followed those words was cold, even in the warm light of the room. "Then I am correct in my assumptions: we will have no concerns in carrying forward, as the plan was agreed?"

"No, your Highness. There is no need for concern in this: I have been assured our numbers are excessive for this task so long as they remain in positions. The plan you have drafted for the coming battle has been met with high-regards. The Generals are in agreement."

"All is well... A true rarity." Leaning back into the grand throne, pale fingers settled into a slow rhythm atop the rests of wood and gold, echoing through out the room like the faint pitter-patter of rain. "I am glad to hear this." As the Scribe raised his eyes with expectant relief to such words, the gaze that continued to watch him from the raised throne of riches and gold seemed only to harden: its pressure building as if true weight on his shoulders and frame. With a flare of fear, he realized that the Royal Heir was not yet done with him. "But, tell me Scribe: has there been any change on my Captain's whereabouts?" She asked it as a question, but as the doors behind him close beneath the thick arms of armored men, it was felt to be much more than that. Something not far from an interrogation, that had only just begun. "My inquiries to such affairs seem to always come back with empty hands."

"N-No, your Majesty." Looking nervously, the Scribe realized there were far more guards than he'd noticed prior to his arrival. Men in armor, each bearing the famous crest of the Royal house: Given only to those of sworn allegiance, and beside the throne, a single rough-haired youth now stood with grim expression. Beneath his hands, a wicked sword rested in its scabbard. "Nothing has changed, so far as I know."

"Nothing... You say that so easily." Impatience seemed to hue the words, tying closely on the final syllables with a clear indication of irritation. "Nothing of his soldiers either?"

"N-nothing, your Majesty."

"Nothing of the Knights he set out with? From the Outposts he was intending to visit, or the escorts that were meant to meet with him?" Her voice hardened as she leaned forward from the throne, hawkish gaze piercing into his very flesh. "Nothing at all?"

"I-I'm afraid not, your Majesty." The Scribe stuttered, hands wringing at themselves in a nervous panic beneath the wide sleeves of his robe. "As you've asked, we have answered. At this time, there is still no report of the Captain and his men. At best we believe they were received late upon the Seventeenth Outpost of the Southern Roads, but nothing has been passed along since." Raising from his nose touching bow, the Scribe continued quickly. "Trusted Royal Mage Sandra upon the walls has stated clearly in her message upon the scribe-networks that they have not yet arrived at their destination."

"The Seventeenth Outpost... Knight Harl," The Queen shifted her attention, heavy gaze landing on the armored Knight who waited beside the first steps that lead upward to the throne. "You were drafted from the South. Tell me, how far from the battlegrounds is this outpost?" The Scribe watched on, uncertainty lifting higher- like a river running to flood.

"If the battle takes place upon the meadows of Rose, it is within two days southwest march, my Queen." The Knight replied with a booming voice and violent energy, but remained frozen within his armor. To the scribe's eyes, the man seemed a statue which might kill.

"Scribe, tell me once more: Exactly which divisions of the Holy Knights have failed to make their arrival as planned?"

"Your Highness- to know such intricate details I will have to consult with the-"

A loud "THUMP" brought the Scribe's words to a sudden halt, thick-binding of Royal Book landing before him. Eyes wide, the Scribe met the glares which focused upon him- not only from the dangerously beautiful figure upon the throne, but also from the young man still standing at her side: Face not unlike a wolf holding in a growl.

"I will ask only one more time, Scribe: Which divisions of the Church have failed to make their arrival?" Beside her, the Scribe's eyes widened at the large beast which crouched in place of where the young man had once stood. The hunched frame of a terrible wolf, with wicked white teeth glowing in the shadows of the throne.

"What vile sorcery is this-" The Scribe heard a slow sliding, turning his head just in time as the thick bar of metal fell into place upon the rungs of the door: Securing it. "In the name of light, such blatant herecy can't possibly-"

"Silence."

The Scribe's blood ran cold as the Royal Heir's command met the air. All eyes followed it, falling upon him and him alone. There was a quiet shift of armor and gauntlets that filled his ears. Leather and steel moved to posture and stance about the room overlapping one another with the slightest of adjustments, but what held his focus more than any other, was beside the throne. That wicked beast noticed only seconds before, baring fangs to let out a rumbling avalanche of a growl: harsh and deep enough to reverberate within the scribe's own chest.

A most final of warnings, before the figure on the throne spoke again.

"Now: Open the book, and tell me everything they've told you not to."