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Heritage of Ash-Ch. 2: Foreboding

It was just before midday, the burning sun's lingering over the smoldering remains of the once Overseer's manor. Blades and arrows lay scattered and broken amidst the bloody debacle that had already begun to attract scavengers and carrion bird, always seeming to know when and where a meal will be present. The bodies of the dead legion lied dessicated and charred, being picked apart by what beasts ventured into the ruin, trampling the tarnished and near destroyed banner of Selvas. Such a scene had not gone unnoticed, as it had repeated itself all along the northern coastlines. Villages and towns now nothing but smoldering ashes, blood stained streets and the carnage of war present in grotesque abundance as the forces of Marshals marched towards each other, bent on slaying each other in vast numbers. Some Marshals claimed that it was only to protect their own people, others demanding the loyalties of those they thought weaker. Skirmishes had cropped up like wildfire in the once peaceful province, and those on both sides of what was to come knew this well. While Turin had gone quiet in the passing days, another Qes had started to make his own plans.

Two days southwest of the ruined manor, across the Tembaren river and nestled within the Sidhartt Mountain Valley, the people of the previously renamed Kolyat's Stand grew anxious. The tavern was nearly always open, and as with all times of hardhship, opportunists had found their way to the town, already crying out for the locals to sell anything they didn't need and buy "quality" goods from them, dispicably seeking their fortunes from the trying times. The guards watched them closely, their spears sharp and in-hand as they watched the exterior of the walls for any sign of danger. Their armor was sturdy, crafted from fine chainmaille and leather over lay that created an air of dedication to look upon them, each bearing the marks of both their own clans and that of the one they swore to protect: Marshal Larkiin. The Marshal was considered by many to be a fair and just man, protecting and watching over his people from his keep, built deep into the mountain and standing like a monolith over the nearby settlement. To the people of Kolyat's Stand, that keep represented their hopes and futures. But to look within, they would find little comfort.

Within his council chambers, the Marshal paced anxiously, index finger resting on his furry chin as he thought. Across from him, three of his advisors sat at a smoothe, wide, dark wooden table, watching quietly as they waited for their Marshal to say anything regarding current events. Larkiin stopped pacing and looked at them in sequence, an honest expression across his face. Before him sat his three most trusted friends, those he'd relied on strongly in the past and now looked on with a timid heart as if they were strangers. On the far left sat the village Smith, an old and burly, muscular Qes whose typical greying black fur had been singed and scarred across his hands, matching the appearance of his barely managed formal wear that had long since been tarnished by use near the forge. In the middle was Larkiin's Second, his Steward. A soft spoken Qes of middle age, fur matching the tree bark brown color of Larkiin, though otherwise not imposing in the least. Finally, to the far right sat Larkiin's Guard Captain, a gruff and stern Sen just a few summers older than the Steward, his full armor donned and bearing the numerous scrapes and scratches with stubborn pride.

Larkiin let out a sigh and began to speak, his voice clear and unwavering, yet humble as he addressed his three companions in the sunlit room.

"My friends, I thank you for joining me. I would offer you hospitality befitting such trusted companions had I the ability, but alas the hour for such pleasantries has long since passed. Not but two days ago I received a message via courier from the Overseer. My Steward, Dera, can inform you of the details. Ahsar Nex'r, if you please?" The Steward bowed his head and rose from the table, pulling the scrolled message from his robes and clearing his throat as he began:

"To the honorable Marshal Larkiin, or to whomever may preside in his stead should he be found unable to address this letter. I, Selvas of the Western Clan Trovis and Overseer of the Province, formally request an audience with you to discuss a most troubling matter that has come to my attention. I was resently visited by one Turin Pavok, who came seeking my martial strength to quell what he described as a potential civil war within our borders. I fear he would see himself leader of these lands, despite his claims, and worry for the safety of my own being more and more each passing night. Please respond in all available haste. Re'Va ere lo, Larkiin-Rett."

The room was hushed for long moments, all within pondering the gravity of the message, each with concern coming to light in their eyes as they turned their gaze back to Larkiin. But before the Marshal could utter a word, the Smith spoke up himself.

"Ser, we've known each other for countless seasons, and I've known the people of this village for even longer, some since they were mere pups. This is no army, if war indeed is coming to our doorstep. Our best are just hunters, having only seen twenty seasons or so, none with the wisdom or experience to fight a battle like this. More than that, many of our number are aging, grandparents who are either too old to fight now, or must care for those two young to have their own paws carry them. Should this Pavok come here, we cannot protect them all." The Guard Captain spoke out immediately to the Smith's comment.

"And what exactly would you have them do, Jaris? Lay down and beg not to be slaughtered? This is war, and whether you like it or not, people are going to die, many in bloody manner. If not here, then where do you propose we keep our people safe?!" As the two bickered, Dera remained silent, watching Larkiin bury his face into his paw as the two argued.

"Enough!" he finally yelled. "You are both right. We cannot keep our people safe here, but neither can we simply lie down for this man who would see himself be Magistrate. Our only recourse is to send the people away for their own protection, and with all haste if possible."

"Marshal, are you truly-"

"Yes, Karta, I am. We must send our people to the west. The Western Isles have long since been a place of refuge and sanctuary for the weary and uprooted. I'll have Dera prepare a formal payment and Declaration of Exodus to present to the Magistrate, as the islands of the strait fall under his domain while we are without leadership. Dera, do you think you could do so?"

"Of course, Ser. But if I may, why not simply..." The steward was stopped mid-speech as Larkiin raised a paw to him.

"We've discussed this, my friend. I know what you think of me, but I truly have no interest in that. Things will go back to normal once we have dealt with this upstart youth. Now please, go prepare the payment and document, then please send the courier who is staying with us at present back to her master with the message that I will see him upon receiving confirmation of his readiness." Dera nodded, rose from his seat and bowed his head, leaving the room to the three men who remained silent in the meantime.

"Karta," the Marshal began. "I want you to round up as many strong men as you can and do a head count. Then choose two thirds of them and tell the rest to spread the word that the people must gather only their most cherished belongings and prepare to evacuate. Coordinate your men to keep an eye on the northern approaches and see that the men you choose receive what training you can provide them. Have the quarter master do an inventory of arms and our stored provisions, as well."

"As... as you say, Marshal. I trust your judgement, though repsectfully, I pray that you are wrong."

"As do I, old friend, now go. Jaris, I need you to get to your forge and begin repairing any equipment fit for combat you can, and see to it that your apprentices start preparing as many arrows and bolts as they can. I want to see every one we have standing with us ready and as fully armed as possible. If there's anyone that can repair the walls, see that they do so. Now please, get started as soon as you can."

"As you wish, Korma... Do you really think that it will make that large a difference?" Larkiin's silence was all the answer the Smith needed as he turned and hurridly made his was back towards the village and his forge, a heavy heart aching in his chest as he realized his friend's intentions. Korma himself stood alone, ominously quiet as he looked up at the bannered mark of his clan on the wall. Nodding to himself, he left through the door and made for the kitchens in a manner both dignified and defiant. "The least those boys deserve is a final drink worth having before they see what lies in store for them. I suppose it's a fitting excuse to break open those barrels of Twin Moon Mead... as good an excuse as I'm likely to have at this point, anyway, Ancestors forbid."

The sun felt unusually warm on the backs of everyone involved that day, as if even it was weighed down by the knowledge of what had begun. The Provincial Civil War... the Clan Skirmishes... May the Ancestors of those soon to meet the blade's cold sting provide them peace, for Turin's men would give them none.