He did exactly as he said he would. He walked. Walked until his feet got sore. Blistered and scabbed over. Horses had not been provided, and Tyr found his access to the stables and his 'allowance' cut off. His father was a calculating man. He'd thought of everything to make this journey of his son's as massive a pain in the ass as possible. They had left with only the packs on their back, and whatever else they owned and could carry. Mostly weapons and rations.

It wasn't as easy as Tyr had expected, not for him. Haran was a wealthy nation and the countryside peasantry seemed as fat and happy as could be. There was a beautiful simplicity in the way they lived. Waking early to tend to their farms and spending the rest of the day at whatever leisure activity they fancied. More than that, they were warm and kind. Tyr knew they did not recognize him after a certain distance from the capital. To them, he was a young knight, not the prince. He found that he enjoyed the decency and respect over false fawning or the anxious terror bought through reputation.

Some would comment on his hair, or display fear at a roving band of armed men. Otherwise, they treated him like anyone else. They'd stop, do enough work to eat their fill, and rest. Sometimes in stables of hay, other times in bedded inns. It depended on how much work was available or how altruistic the locals were feeling. Mostly, they were a kind lot that gave with both hands. Once it was made apparent that they were from the capital, the commoners would relax. Even offer to throw a celebration, though Tyr would always refuse. He'd take the free food, though. Anything to break the monotony of tasteless hard tack and overly salted meats.

He envied the commoners and their life. He envied those who could live on the road, in a way. Tyr understood that it was a hard life, but it certainly wasn't all that bad... The walking though... He hated that part the most.

It seemed so easy, on paper. 'To walk'. Such a natural and basic action that everyone with the faculties did every day. Only now, further from the capital than he'd ever been on foot had he realized how uncomfortable it could be. His blisters had blisters, and his stomach was constantly grumbling. The sun beat down on him leaving him red and raw and scratchy in the night time, making it damn hard to sleep. Louse made their home in his hair and tickled his scalp. The filth, too, Tyr hadn't be so dirty for so long in all his life.

After a while, a few weeks at most, the charm and romance of a fantastic journey began to wear off. There wasn't shit out here but trees and grass for miles in each direction. He had never been so far away from his household servants, and his men were a poor replacement for them. This journey, if anything, put into perspective how privileged he had been. Instead of coming to understand this lesson as fair wisdom, Tyr felt like reversing course and banging on the palace door until his father allowed him back inside.

But his pride... That damned pride of his.

He was a city boy at heart, but he swore to conquer the road by any means possible. Every blister that burst, every flake of skin peeled from his pale flesh was a promise. He'd return a 'mans man' and punch his father square in the face. Of course, instead of blaming his own weakness, he blamed his father. That was the kind of person Tyr was.

“It's not so bad, you're just soft. Quit your bitchin' and soak your princely feet or something.”

“Fair advice, prince. Never like to run out of water out here, rivers all over the place. Not one of us gonna complain about a nice parkin' of our asses. Maybe see some village tits, eh?”

“City boy. Y'know, when I was your age I'd already been on the road for...”

One bit of what they'd said interested him. They rested at the bend in a stream, men sprawled about lazily and basking in the afternoon sun while Tyr rubbed at his aching feet. Dipping them gingerly in the water and wincing. Watching in vague wonderment as tiny fish swam languidly toward the bits of skin peeling off and nibbled away at them. “I'll beat the next man that tempts me with insult.”

Normally, that'd convince a man to shut his mouth. Normally, Tyr would do it to – but they knew he'd never do that to them. Too much investment had been put into the blackguard, and too many had died on the raid at the warehouse. They didn't blame Tyr for his obvious error. That was the life when one lived by the sword, they understood. Mourned, and moved on, and held no grudges. However, they weren't a band of servants to be ordered about. Tyr was glad they weren't knee bending men, but that was a double edged sword.

“If you all weren't so dull in the head you'd have realized our prince has enough silver to have bought himself a horse by now.” Tor grunted, whittling away at a piece of wood, some icon of a god. His skill with woodworking was worth praise, the relief of Bumi's face looking much like the statues in the churches.

He was correct, as well. Tyr could have bought a horse, one or two of them. A decent nag, at the very least. This region of Haran wasn't known for its horses, but beasts of burden were everywhere. Eastward toward the plains of Arendal there would be many more well within their available finances. Better steeds there, the best in the whole empire. Here was a land of vast forests and hills so green that no artist could hope to capture the vibrancy of their color. Rolling and endless, just now starting to showcase the panoply of colors autumn would bring to the leaves of the trees. Tyr had liked that, if he'd liked anything about this jaunt of his. The green of the forests and the scent of nature. Born and raised in the city, his chances to escape its clutches had been rare.

Oak and pine stretched in all directions. The air clean enough to set his nose crinkling at the stench of an unwashed man. Something he never would've noticed in all its malodorous glory before. It was quiet, no light pollution made the stars much easier to see. No smoke, smog, loud merchants and creaking carriages. Only the pleasant song of the crickets and hoppers, an old howl of a wolf baying at the moon. He loved that. It was like a spring wound far too tight in the back of his neck had slackened in tension so far away from all the noise.

“That reminds me.” Mikhail turned his head to the prince. He had survived, as had Fennic. Both pleasant surprises. Many others, unfortunately, had not. Too late for resurrection magic, though Tiber had seen to the expensive ritual himself. He was not permitted to take part in their journey, though. Remaining behind to safeguard the princesses instead. “Why haven't you bought a horse?”

“Because you'd have been forced to walk regardless. I can afford two or three, not twenty.” Tyr replied, still wincing at his feet. “And don't think it's because I give a damn about you lot. It's because I've come to the conclusion that I can't be assed to watch you stare at my rear as I ride off in style all jealous like.”

“Mhm. Of course.”

Samson chuckled. “These lands have a beauty of their own. You should feel lucky to walk among so much green. I've not seen this much of it since my youth.” He was working an oil cloth over his over-sized halberd, necessary in its length to fit his massive proportions. Calmly rubbing at the metal with a soft smile. He seemed to appreciate the weapon and administered to it every single day. Tyr wondered why, but had never asked, perhaps Samson was simply grateful for the opportunity to wield honest arms again. He did the same with all of his kit, armor included. Tending to each piece like a child, and his body was always the cleanest and pleasant smelling among the men.

“Really? I'd heard the southern continent was all desert as far as the eye could see?” Mikhail asked bluntly. A Harani man, he'd never journeyed across borders let alone across the sea of storms to the far flung southern continent.

Nodding, Samson continued in his maintenance of his weapon without raising head nor eye. “In some places, sure. Awowogei lands are vast and green, deep jungles with flowering vines of every color under creation. A different kind of colorful, and a dangerous one. Ground that gives way to near vertical mountains stretching all the way into the sky. You ruffians wouldn't last a single day in the lands of my fathers, your land is soft in comparison.”

That started another debate. Claims that the 'black forest' of Haran was far more dangerous. Tyr didn't see how. There were wolves here, some assorted monsters, but never anything that would surprise him even had they run into them. The greenwatch did their duty in the west, and the wardens the same in the east. Anything dangerous enough to threaten such a large party were probably little more than petrified bone deep beneath the earth. Haran was not a dangerous place, not here in the central regions. So long had man lived here that they'd been given ample time to systematically cull every significant threat from one coast to the next. With few exceptions.

They continued on. Walking, walking, and more walking. With his status as a prince and associated documents should he have need of them, he'd have leave to cross the borders between nations. Could even enter republic territory to the west if he wanted to. Haran was at war with nobody and friendly with most. The problem was, it was so vast, the empire. Wide and tall, and this journey gave scale to it a map couldn't properly articulate.

“What's that say...?” Someone asked. Certainly not Fennic. Doug, Tyr thought. A real dumb bastard with a crescent moon scar across his face from a branding. Strong, though. Good with an axe, too. Then again, most of them were good with some form of steel or another. Couldn't read, most of them couldn't and Mikhail would often act as their dedicated rune reader. This time though, it was Samson who sounded the words out, being the tallest of the men it was easy for him to look over their heads.

“Says... Riverwood, one mile.” Antonio, another of their number spoke up next. “Always surprised me how you imperials are still using... Well, imperial. S'pose that's not so surprising at all. Huh, guess I never made the connection. Y'know, the fact that they call it 'imperial measurements'?”

“What do they use in Baccia? Baccia... Baccian?” Doug had a dumb look on his face. Couldn't read, couldn't count, but Tyr didn't need him for that. Nor did anyone else, his strong back was far more useful.

“Metric, we're not barbarians...”

“Aye. Men of a healthy mind measure things as the dwarves do.”

“I'll punch you in the face at ten feet per second, you successor state rat.”

“I don't think that's very fast at all though... Right, prince? You're educated, tell him that's not fast.”

“Shut up.” Tyr silenced them softly. They listened. Rough and rowdy, they tended to do that much at least. Most of the time. Riverwood was far south of the capital, they'd been traveling for about two weeks and still they were only near the center of the empire. “Mikhail, how close is this town to the border?”

“It's hard to say. These paths wend and wind, but... As the crow flies, we're about three hundred miles from the capital, give or take ten for your blisters. Two hundred miles to the nearest borderwatch, I'd say. No Riverwood on my map, which means its pretty small. But we're not far from the Regis demesne, some irony in that. Hammondsport is about about a dozen miles east so I should be pretty close.”

“Why do they call it a port if it's not on the sea? Hammond's port, right? Doesn't make any sense.”

“Maybe there's a lake...?”

“There's not.”

“River?”

“Rivers here, hence Riverwood. Right?”

“Maybe there are two rivers.”

“If there were two rivers why would anyone call this place Riverwood?”

“...Huh. Never thought of it that way.”

“Big country, in any case.” Tyr mused, craning his neck to look at the map. By foot they'd covered an incredible amount of ground, but two weeks seemed like a long time. Exacerbated by the lack of conveniences, it felt like forever.

“I think that's why they call it an empire, my prince. It's far wider than it is tall.” Mikhail rested against a tree, peeling at an apple with his knife. He was an older man, in his early 30's in the eyeball, though a bit older in reality. Fit and dark as easterlings tended to be. An Arendal man. “Why?”

“Something is off about this place.” Tyr observed. He'd also never heard of this Riverwood before either, it must've been a small village. Perhaps he wasn't the supreme authority on all things geographic, but his father had ensured the prince knew all of the major settlements by heart. “Do you feel it?”

“'Course.” Mikhail responded with a snort. He was a ranger by trade, constable by vocation, and in Haran that made him as good a woodsman as any. “Four bows been trained on us for about a hundred yards or so. Got watchers in the trees, this lot. Move quick and find a hole in ya though, better to leave it be and speak to the headman. Trouble out here isn't so rare, people just wanna be safe. No harm in it.”

Fennic whistled to indicate his affirmation of the claim. Four times like a bird for four men trailing them. He, a woodsman too. Tyr hadn't noticed them at all, cursing himself for his laxity. He had felt so safe here in 'his' kingdom that he hadn't given a thought to bandits, rogues, or any trouble on the road.

“Relax.” Mikhail cautioned them. “Take a slow hand and keep them away from your blades. These aren't any bandits, unless they're the worst bandits I've ever seen. Hunters from the village, I think. Why don't you lads come out? No steel for you here, we're imperial men sworn to the crown, oaths honor.” He raised his voice at the last part. No immediate reply came, until a rustling of a bush heralded a man dressed in furs dyed to a moss green tint.

Not twenty yard separated the man from the group. Far too close for comfort, Tyr cast a dirty look at Mikhail who merely shrugged in way of apology. He hadn't spoken up because there was no need to spook their more violence prone brethren into doing something stupid. Half of them had taken an arrow or two not so long ago already. There was trust among them, so Tyr didn't push the issue.

“Who are you, then? You say crown men?” Not a man on second inspection, but a woman. Skinny and short, with liver spots visible on her wrinkled cheeks. An old woman, at that. Tyr almost laughed before remembering that this might be unfriendly territory for a highborn. Those kind of rich and privileged folks weren't likely to find friends far from a town or city. And there weren't many of those around here. The forest was too wild and thick for it.

Nobody seemed quick to reply, making faces of askance toward Tyr. “We're... Imperial rangers from the north. Looking for a place of rest for weary feet.”

“Don't lie to me boy, ain't but three or four man of the woods among you.” She raised her bow, leveling it straight at his face and drawing it smoothly. A trained, practiced motion. The movement was fluid and belied her elderly appearance. “Speak true, this time. I will stick ya, that's my oaths honor.”

Tyr raised his hands, shouting his men into compliance, finding himself not so keen on the idea of testing any theories whilst being held at arrowpoint. “In truth, we're just wearing that disguise. You have keen eyes, elder, but we are not your enemy. We are men of the capital and we are ranging – whether we're good at it or not. Sworn to the crown, I have documents if you'll read them.” He dug in his rucksack with one hand, the other raised in surrender to produce the scrolls that denoted him as a prince under crown authority.

“Can't read.” She replied, lips pursed. “We'll let the headman see those. In the meantime, you'll keep walking and follow the same path. No more words for you lot, keep your hands off your blades and bearing straight. Know that there are eleven watching your every move, not four. More around the village, too. Be wise, now.”

I went this direction for a reason. Tyr thought. Might as well find out why.

–

Riverwood was a quaint village situated on the bend of a river winding its way through the forest. It wasn't deep, nor overly wide, but as with the streams northward it was clear and pleasant to look at. The mood was heavy but the people appeared to be healthy. What with a dense forest of pine, spruce, and cedar filled with game of all kinds, and a waterway teeming with fish, it seemed the residents here weren't likely to go hungry. Not peasants, but commoners, the distinction between the two was foggy at times – but Tyr could tell by the way the structures were built. Cabins built in the style of the north, with wide beamed walls and all manner of activity around them. More importantly, these commoners bore house standards, meaning they were not families directly sworn to a noble house. They likely paid tax to Regis, but they weren't in the direct employ of his domain. Free men, though everyone was supposed to be free. Technically...

It had an inn, a small general purpose shrine, and a blacksmith. Notably, there were no smiles like in other places. The people glanced at the road worn group with suspicion. Men fishing at the river kept a steady hand over the hatchets at their belts inconspicuously. Not a large village, but it was built dense unlike the other countryside settlements that predicated their industry on pure agriculture. There were at least forty adults within plain view, going about their business in silence. A grim bunch, even the women had weapons at their belt. Knives, axes, or the odd hammer made more for striking nails than skulls.

“Creepy.” Tor commented from the rear. In bearing, he was slouched over casually with his hands in his pockets. No doubt grabbing at something sharp hidden beneath his cloak. These people watching them were avid woodsmen and trackers, but they'd obviously had little experience with dangerous men.

Tyr couldn't disagree. These were men and women of the frontier who behaved very differently from what he was used to. A half palisade surrounded the village and looked to have been a recent construction, the tar smell still fresh on the logs. Freshly milled too.

“Welcome to Riverwood.” The old woman guided them in. “As you can see, it's a town for lumbering and fur trapping. Good fishing, too, if you've the mind for it. Salmon, trout, pike, sunfish, lakes feed the tributaries so we've got all sort of variety aquatic. Eels in the rapids south of here, most like em smoked, it's not bad. A local delicacy, some call it.”

“Seems like a nice place.” Tyr observed, though he didn't have much interest in the variety of their fish. These people were not poor, what with their shingled roofs and not a square inch of sod on them. Well maintained, though that'd surprise nobody after hearing of the nearby sawmill and common vocation being some form of carpentry or lumbering work. “I mean no disrespect, elder, but what's got your people in such a mood?”

The blackguard were easily identified as fighting men. Road men. Law in the empire was maintained with a heavy hand and no small amount of personnel to uphold it. Constables, the rangers of the greenwatch, arbiters, traveling knights, wardens... They'd have had a difficult time getting this far without the royal seal of passage plainly visible to passing riders. Yet the people of Riverwood seemed alien to the idea. Maybe it was the low mist that seemed to cling to the skin and soak one through their cloak in the early morn, courtesy of the cluster of mountains hanging over the eastern horizon. Tyr figured that could put anyone in a foul mood.

“Not my job to explain that, m'lord fancy britches.”

“I'm not a noble.” Tyr snorted. It wasn't technically a lie. He wasn't a noble. “And if I was, you could find yourself in a spot of difficulty using such a disrespectful tone. No offense on my part though, honored elder.” He added that last part in due consideration to how country folk typically acted. It seemed to work, with the old woman winking slyly back at him. She seemed to warm up to their presence rather fast, but her eyes remained vigilant.

It wasn't a large village by any means, they arrived at their destination after a brief jaunt through the well in the middle. It had no square, just a town hall built into the style of a longhouse sat adjacent the blacksmith and inn. Likely to be the largest structure in the place, it had a lofty main room with shadowed corridors beyond. Half of it seemed to be built into the side of a small hill. Certainly no imperial palace, but it had its charm.

At the end of the hall in a chair elaborately carved with runes and the faces of various animals sat an older man. His age was difficult if not impossible to discern. Solid gray in hair and beard alike, but with the body of an ox. Exuding youthful vitality, he calmly observed the prince and knight at his side. Only two men would be given the opportunity to meet the headman until their origins were verified.

It was awkward. That thing men of authority did at times. Like his father. The headman simply stared at Tyr, not sparing a glance at the much more conspicuous form of Samson beside him. Malachite green eyes with a sharpness to them. Those were Harani eyes, here in the breadbasket from which the original nation had formed. Dark eyes in the east, blue east in the west and especially along the coast, green eyes throughout. True Harani blood was in the green eyes. That's what they said, green for the earth. Blue eyes were northern, dark and brown eyes were easterling. The empire was huge, though, there was diversity throughout – few people really cared much about the color of a mans eyes. Haran was nationalist at its core.

“Your name?” The man asked. Despite his grizzled appearance and frame like that of a lumberjack any tree should fear, his voice was smooth and gentle. Soft, even, and mellow. He had a nice voice, like a bard, this headman.

“I'd like an oath first.” Tyr responded in kind, calm and even. “You'll understand why.”

“It's a rare man that'll given an oath to a stranger before we've broken bread. Spot of ale too, I think. You're hungry from your trip I'd wager. First, I'll see your faces. Not wise to walk the forest with a hooded head. Might give honest folk the wrong idea.”

Tyr did as he was asked, with Samson following his lead. Both men could not look more dissimilar. Paleness of a northerner set against the dark tones of one from the far, far south. If first impressions were a good indication, the headman did not like what he saw. Not in Samson, but rather it was Tyr that seemed to be the source of the man's ire.

“You've the look of a rogueish one about you, boy. I may be old, but I reckon if you act up I'd lodge an axe in your skull faster than the black one can stop me. Savvy?”

“Savvy. And his name is Samson.” Tyr replied. They had an odd way of speaking, those who dwelt at the interior. The headman's accent was thick but not so much as to be difficult to understand. A man with some steel in him, and a desire to protect his people. Probably could do that thing. Certainly a more trusting man than Tyr, he found himself unsurprised that no guards of any kind made themselves apparent at the headman's side. Or, rather than trusting, competent enough not to need them. “We're just passing through. Looking for lodging, and we can pay for it.”

The rattle of a coin purse did little to soften the iron in the mans look. Not one that could be bought or fooled by a promise of silver.

“Peace, then. Let's eat. And talk.” Noble or not, the man had a gravitas. Clearly a commoner, as every headman would be – these simple words were enough to make the hall burst into activity. Cleverly hidden alcoves revealed no less than eight men carrying lumbering axes and bows. Women and children beyond them began to set a modest meal upon one of the two sturdy tables flanking the fire pit. Tyr was impressed, he hadn't a clue that so many people had been so near, and this time he'd been actively scanning for them. It made Samson uncomfortable, but the man didn't act on it – merely twitching at the sight of them all appearing at once. He hadn't known either.

They ate and talked, albeit little. Only Tyr, the headman, and Samson. No names, and no business – not for some time. It was a light affair, the meal – though Tyr preferred an even lighter breakfast. Brown bread with butter, a flagon of watered down ale that tasted like a skunks ass marinated in pine nuts, and a single egg for each of them.

“You took an odd path getting here, through the warrens. You're from the north, I can hear it in the way you speak. Why not take the trade roads?”

“Because I have no idea where I'm going.” Tyr replied, chewing on the bread, enjoying the flavor of butter that had been clarified with herbs. After a time, even the ale began to taste good. He liked this place, stinking of wood smoke and damp furs. He liked the man, too. Something about him impressed the prince. His simple, blunt honesty and none of the customary 'small talk' expected by nobility. He'd hated that. Couldn't suggest a simple contract with a man without asking toward his eleven children first or some nonsense. Here was a simpler custom, the 'old way' they called it, bread and salt. “I'm just walking, taking random turns. Hoping my purpose finds me before I end up in a successor shit hole tricking my ass for a copper. You get me?”

The old headman ignored Tyr's crude joke, but his eyes shone with a sort of amusement at the attempted wit. “You're a noble. Been exiled? Fleeing the law?”

Every question that was asked, calm tones or not, carried a threat. It seemed to say 'don't lie to me', an audible gravity. To be given what one gave, an honest exchange.

“Not a noble.” Tyr replied with a sigh. “Exiled, perhaps. You'll understand once you read these letters. I'm no criminal, not by imperial law, oaths honor.”

He read, that headman. A learned one, or at least so far as to be literate. His eyes moved fast over the fresh parchment, widening ever so slightly as he reached its end. Tyr groaned, making a move to raise his hand and stop the headman from making a fool of himself. Unfortunately, he was too late.

“My prince.” He was already on his knee, kneeling as the knights did. It'd explain the way about him, the watchful eyes and confident discipline. The callouses on the web of his palm that weren't likely to come from lumbering. “Please forgive my rudeness. I had no idea. We'd heard you'd perished some weeks past, but rarely does news from the capital reach us in haste.”

“You'll offend me more if you don't give that up. This is part of that oath I wanted from you...” Tyr spoke plainly, frustrated at what he'd known would happen should he choose to reveal his identity – but he'd had no choice in the matter. Men like these, honest men... Not keen to nobles but god fearing and therefore reverent of the 'crown' such as it was. Some would put the iron in their wrists if he'd asked it of them, doubly so for any current or former knight. “Rise. Sit. You're a knight? How'd you end up in a place like this?”

“Aye, my prince. Rorik's my name.” Rorik sat, accepting Tyr's 'grace'. “Captain of the 2nd once upon a time, you've a keen eye on you. Born here in Riverwood, ended up retiring back home when my time came. It'll grow on you, should you choose to stay – our home has a magic all its own you won't find anywhere else in this region.” He grinned. A woods man, but still with the chivalry and valor of more 'civilized' climes.

“A legion knight?” Tyr was doubly impressed, raising his eyebrows. To be a knight was no small thing, but it wasn't exactly impressive either. There were a lot of knights, serving the many orders that found charters within the empire. Many were sworn to the churches or their own independent organizations, and could even be found in other nations via various chapters. A knight of the legions though, the army under the empire itself, was owed a bit more... Face.

There were eight legions in Haran. Numbered from the 1st to the 8th, with the authority they possessed matching that standard for numbering. The 2nd legion, the moon legion, was once the personal legion of Tyr's grandfather. They kept order in the west and were known for their wily strategies and wholly untarnished record. In fact, by Tyr's reckoning, the man's age was such that he was likely to be one of the few living legion officers that had participated in an actual war. Wars were rare in this era, true wars – that is. Before Tyr had been born, some two decades ago, the 1st and 2nd legions were sent to pacify a country of beastkin that had begun pressuring their border.

Before the 1st and 'best' legion had even arrived, the fighting was over. No more war. No more Sinea. It was beyond strange that a knight of a highly regarded legion and a captain no less found himself in a humble village, headman or not. Surely he'd been due a pension or villa somewhere in the milder easterling counties. Perhaps even the temperate west with their long coastlines and sandy beaches. Riverwood wasn't exactly ugly, but it was damp and dreary, near enough to the mountains to guarantee a harsh winter.

“Aye.” Rorik nodded with pride, chest puffed out. The pride of a knight. “I remain sworn to your father, the primus. Command me, and I shall do His work. Or yours, my prince.”

Tyr was worried the man might flourish or bow again. Fortunately, he wasn't a highborn fop, but a man of action and steel. A little rough around the edges, but Tyr liked his men better this way.

“My only request is that you provide lodging if possible. Even a stable will do.” Tyr's tone remained flat, unwilling sit through a barrage of 'your grace' this and 'your eminence' that. “As for the oath I asked toward. I'd like you to keep my identity a secret. Call me a knight, for I am chartered, as is my man Samson here. It would not be a mistruth, and you would do me honor by recognizing merit before birth.”

The Harani way.

“Of course I can do that.” Rorik nodded eagerly, an almost childlike devotion in his eyes. “Not a stable, my prince. You'll be staying here with me. But... Why keep your identity a secret? We mourned you, the whole village did. Neighboring villages too. Felt a blackness in our hearts when we'd heard you'd been victim of a killing most foul, and I'm sure they'd shower you with the blessings of all the gods should they learn of your survival. Folk could use a little hope around here, trust me.”

“It makes things... Inconvenient.” Tyr pursed his lips. “I'd hardly be able to get anything done, and I have no interest in flower bouquets or parades, benedictions of the priesthood... I'd like some peace and quiet, and a place to rest my feet. That's all.”

“Your father, for I was blessed to have met him many years ago, said something quite similar. Two peas in a pod. Mmm... Then how should I call you?” Rorik asked, uncomfortable at the idea of refraining from the use of a title.

“Tyr will be just fine. If people connect the dots, then so be it. I've no predilection for an alias. You will do this for me?”

Rorik nodded, slamming a fist into his barrel chest in the way that knights would. A solemn oath, nor words were needed for that one. “Ah, but I've been remiss. This one is a knight of the dawnguard by the cut of his armor, then? Well met, brother. How should I call you?”

“Samson. Or Sam, as the princesses refer to me.” Samson had an affection for the young women who treated him so well and made no comment toward his heritage. The ladies had seen to his treatment as well, visiting him often and speaking to him equitably. Unaccustomed to eyes that communicated equity in some time, he'd never met a true northerner before. Those of Oresund, who respected warriors above all else. Even the women. Samson liked that kind of mindset, the same as people comported themselves in his homeland.

“He's a junior knight of the dawnguard.” Tyr took another swig of the disgusting ale, finding it yet more pleasing to his palate. 'It grows on you' – maybe Rorik had been right, certainly the ale seemed to be improving through experience. Warm, though, Tyr would be wise not to drink too much lest his stomach ache. “Following me around as we tramp through the woods and startle villagers is his oath of chapter.”

“I see.” Rorik nodded. “It's good to see old Tiberius hasn't lost his touch for sniffing out talent even in foreigners.”

“You know Tiberius?” It wasn't common for a knight, even one of the legions, to have much acquaintance with what were considered royal guards. Those men rarely left the city, though Tiber had come from a faraway place and lived most of his life in Milano.

“Know him!?” Rorik boomed with throaty laughter. All of the glares and suspicions had melted away after the revelation, leaving behind a fatherly old man quick to a smile. “I spurred him. He was already a knight when he came here, but customs and all. You know how it is. He was a real devil when he was younger, believe me, but he had not a lick of sense toward custom. So talented though, born and bred to be better than me from his first day.”

“I never knew that. Then you knew my mother?”

“That I did.” Rorik nodded, sadder now. Melancholy around the eyes and mouth. “She was a good woman, and a kind one. We mourned her passing, all of us in the legion. Without the war some two decades ago... Perhaps the initial plan to convert the legion captains into her guard would have remained in place. But the dawnguard were and remain legends, I know they tried their best. And they, too, mourn.”

“Thank you for your words, Rorik.” Tyr felt the ale sour in his mouth. He could get used to the drink, after a time – but he'd never get used to conversations like this. “I'm sure that she'd be twice as dead and me along with her if it had been so. I'd have appreciated you standing at Tiber's side, but those louts in the first legion? I'd have made a fair opponent for them even back then.”

Sometimes it was wiser to make a jest of things, though dark they may be. Rorik didn't laugh, but he smiled softly at the sentiment. There had long been dispute of superiority between the lion and the moon, no end to their competitive nature. For time immemorial.

“Ah, well. We shall remember her always.” Rorik nodded, softening in tone and mein. “Always.”

He seemed like he wanted to say more, but this was still a conversation between prince and knight. The authority Tyr possessed, held in confidence or not, was something to be mindful of. Old dogs, as they said, rarely learned new tricks. Seeking to change the subject, Tyr leaned forward conspiratorially, resting his chin in his palm.

“Why is it like this here, Rorik? The mood seems... Very dark.”

“Aye. Troubled times, lad. We've an issue with bandits this last moon. Not some small gang, them. Sent a request for aid to the baron some while back but I have yet to hear news.”

“That's...” Tyr grimaced, clenching his fist. He wasn't one to care much about men and women he didn't know, but the health and well being of the empire came first. Economically, militarily, and otherwise. Industry towns, even small villages like Riverwood were a critical part of the Empire in more ways than the revenues they generated. Of all the duties possessed by a noble with an annuity, protecting their commonfolk was the simplest and most sacred. A noble who even failed to attempt to do so was bound for a rude awakening by one or another arbiter. The whole system seemed designed for care of the populace, but that kind of consideration and emotion was a lie. Tyr knew that it was designed specifically to keep as many healthy fighting men spread throughout the empire as possible. Wars, fights, or peace, to be ready was... Well, to be ready. Necessary.

He would ensure that this happened soon rather than later.

“What's the name of your baron? I'm not familiar with this territory. I will pay him a visit for you.”

“Ah. Baron Regis, my prin-- Tyr...”

Ah... Shit. It made perfect sense as to why dear Rorik and his villagers hadn't heard from the baron. Yet still, based on the mans tone, he seemed to have respect for the man. Any time a noble house was removed from power, there would always be a vacuum. Bandits would appear out of nowhere, so said the histories. Not nowhere, in truth. Simply the same people that would've been fighting said bandits otherwise, out of work and with nowhere to go.

“House Regis holds the villa near Larronsford, ten miles or so to the east on the hill overlooking Hammondsport. Though I hear he attends his court very little, leaving it in the hands of our baroness. A capable woman, I am sure that she does not ignore our pleas willfully.”

“I'll help you with your bandit problem.” That's all Tyr could say, not ready to admit culpability to the man just yet. Maybe he never would be, there was shame in the realization at his actions. Or rather how little consideration he'd given the cause and effect.