Renaissance meets Carmine. Two men with titles fight. Will either title be earned; re-birth or deep red ending?
Melidaus steps forward to mete his fate. . .
A military camp. A command tent, recently occupied. A scroll left on the folding campaign chest, after having been read several times. A wolf helm strapped hastily, agitatedly on. A challenge. Accepted .
“How’s this now?” “What is it, Galfoon? You know my eyes aren’t arent as strong as my skill.” “I spy a... well, a war-band like few heading from the south.” “No need to tell me the direction. I can see where you are looking, baag.” “Right you are. Sorry. I got carried away.” “No deal. Why are they odd?” “A mixed lot. Not from a House, that’s sure.” “From the Ramparts, might be.” “It’s possible?” “Fetch the Lefth. I will keep them here until you get back.” Once Galfoon had gone, Sheld Vromire turned and faced the approaching travelers. In the lead rode a defender of the Ramparts Previous. Vromire knew the uniform. Behind this man, came a few others all differing from each. One man rode a brilliant orange horse. Vromire blinked to make sure that he was seeing it right. He was. Vromire knew the Houselands bred the finest of horses. This mount was like nothing he had heard of, except in fireside tales. Vromire swallowed several times before the party reached his position...