Starday Morning, Fireseek 1, 591 Common Year

After a couple of days, Fingol rows his canoe right up to the docks that front the levees which prevents the Javan River from flooding the hollow in which the larger part of the city has sunk over the years. He makes his way through the unpleasantness that is Westkeep and reports to Sir Bodwyn, the Captain of the Guard, a stout blue-eyed, blond Keoland knight in his late twenties or early thirties. As one of the King’s Rangers returning to give a report, the Captain Bodwyn takes Fingol to the barracks to put on fresh garments suitable for the court and generally become presentable. This includes putting his weapons away as he knows he will not need them in court. He is then brought into the palace straightaway to see Prince Prospero.

On that same morning, Gar also arrives in Westkeep. He is shocked and dismayed by it all, never having left his tribal lands and seen a city before. The Flan of the bottomlands lead a hard life but there is none of the poverty and abject misery that he observes in Westkeep. The Flan tribes would never allow their own to die of starvation or disease in the streets as these people do. As Gar walks down the Processional from the levee-docks, he feels hemmed in by the wooden and stone buildings clustered all around and seeming to lean in against one another – and this is on one of the wider thoroughfares and not the little streets and alleys branching off of it. Crippled beggars and pathetic urchins mob him. There is an interminable hustle and bustle of peddlers, merchants, detachments of soldiers, and other less savory characters. The streets are full of mud and muck. The foul reek of offal and unwashed bodies almost makes him gag. Horses and other animals herded through the streets contribute to the mess and stench, and he soon learns to beware the buckets of slops that are emptied out into the streets from the doors and windows overhead. It becomes obvious why these people tend to wear wide-brimmed hats. Down one alleyway he sees a man leading a corpse-laden cart ringing a hand-bell and shouting, “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!”

At the palace gate Gar is stopped by a couple of young men armed with shortswords and wearing the red tabards with the black lion rampant of the Guard. “And where do you think you’re going huh? State your business.” 

“Greetings, kind sirs,” replies Gar in the Common Tongue. “I have come to see the military governor, Prince Prospero of the House of Ilshar, to convey a message from the Great Druidess of the Flan of the Sheldomar Valley.”

“Ha, it’s your lucky day then. The Prince-Governor is holding court. Just go over to the entrance to the palace and line up with the other petitioners in the courtyard. Mind you though, you’ll have to hand over any other weapons you have other than that dagger and staff until you leave.”

Gar hands over his sickle and slingshot to the guards and is told to cross the courtyard from the gate to where the other petitioners are lined up outside the entrance to the main hall. They are a mixed lot of merchants and peasants. After awhile, the Captain of the Guard comes out to organize them all. With a scribe writing everything down, the Captain asks each person the nature of their business. When Gar tells him that he comes from the Great Druidess the Captain looks him over and sees from the chain shirt that Gar wears under his tunic and the Green Man carving of Obad-Hai that he wears on a thong around his neck that he must indeed be a cleric of some sort. As a Flan tribesman, the Captain figures that Gar may indeed be a messenger from the Great Druidess. He asks Gar a couple of questions and is suitably impressed by his demeanor and knowledge.

“I see you’re not here to just argue over a few coppers you may have been cheated of in the marketplace. You’ll go to the head of the line after the noble petitioners have had their turn,” he says. With that, the Captain leads Gar into the judgment hall where the Prince-Governor is holding court.

At last Gar is able to get a good look at Prince Prospero of the House of Ilshar as he sits upon his throne bearing his scepter of office. The prince is a young man, perhaps Gar’s age or at most a few years older. His pale complexion attests to his noble Suloise line, but the curly dark blonde hair that hangs down to his shoulders and emerald eyes could just as well be Oeridian. The talk of the countryside that Gar heard on his journey, by those who had only heard of the prince and never seen him, was that Prospero is a mere princeling, a puppet, a pawn, an ineffectual dreamer, a mere distaff relation to the Royal House of Skotti. They said he was assigned to the Hool Marshes Protectorate because he would make a good scapegoat when this foolish venture into Westkeep inevitably fails. In his presence, however, Gar sees something else. He sees a man in his prime: fit, and confident. The Prince-Governor has a restive and watchful look, like a lion taking its ease but ready to bound after his prey at a moment’s notice. There is a genuine smile on his lips and in his eyes, but it is not the smile of an idle dreamer or an effete dilettante. This is someone who has been bred to power and is beginning to come into his own if the fates allow.

Gar notices that the other courtiers in the room seem of similar stature. These are not idle gossipers. They seem grave but pleasant. Many are fair skinned, blond blue eyed Suloise nobles, though here and there he sees that there are also Oeridian nobles, ladies in waiting, servants and guards – with their tanned or olive complexions, darker hair, and eyes of various hues. One woman in particular makes a striking impression as she stands, as if in constant readiness, near the prince. She is dressed in an unadorned white silk blouse and matching pantaloons – as are many of the others. Gar notices that she wears a pendant, the silver lightning bolt of the god Heironeous, the Invincible, the Valorous Knight, the Archpaladin, the Oeridian battlefield champion of all that is right and good – though now worshipped in Keoland by Suloise and Oeridian alike. Her red hair is cut short but still very ladylike. Her freckled face has the ripe sweetness of a good-natured peasant, but her piercing blue eyes resonate with a watchful intelligence. She looks old enough to be his mother, or at least a much older sister, though the bloom of youth has not yet begun to fade. Though the prince physically overshadows her petite frame; the power of her presence seems at least equal to his.

Now that he has been brought into the hall, Gar sees that the last noble petitioner is about to make his case. He is announced by the herald as Sir Fingol, son of Ragnbjorn, a member of the King’s Rangers assigned to the Hool Marsh Protectorate. Fingol is a plain looking man of average height, but rather thin looking. There is little about him that is remarkable, neither displeasing nor notable. His olive complexion and dark brown hair and eyes mark him as a descendant of the Oeridians. As is his habit, he is constantly looking around, scanning his surrounding, even as he speaks to others.

“Greetings cousin,” says the Prince. “We are glad that you have come and hope that after you have told us of your deeds and concerns you will stay for this evening’s feast. Please tell us what you have done and seen and let us know how we can be of service to you.”

Looking down to the tiles awkwardly, Fingol says, “My lord, it is I who begs to offer service, if it is fit to take up with my rough and unable hands. I have no great deeds to report. The bards have songs enough of dead heroes. And so, I do what I can to avoid giving them further inspiration.”

The Prince chuckles a bit at all this – in a friendly way. “My cousin, you certainly have courtly manners for one of the King’s Rangers. We are used to more rough-hewn types. Good men to be sure, but usually not so courtly. But please, go on.”

Fingol continues, “I have come to report what I have seen in the Hool Marshes. The lizardfolk, normally retiring, are showing signs of hostility. I fear for the safety of those who live in the marshes and gather its bounty to feed your garrison. As for the weight of this danger or what should be done, I have no great insight to offer. I am sure you and your able advisors already see further into this than I can guess at.”

After this little speech, Fingol looks around a bit to gauge the court’s reaction and to see if by chance his father is among the courtiers. The courtiers are murmuring among themselves, but there seems to be no great shock, surprise or consternation. If anything it seems as though he had simply confirmed something they already suspected. There is no sign of Ragnbjorn or any other rangers, at least none that Fingol recognizes.

“Thank you cousin, I thank you for this information. Our fishermen have also reported confrontations with the lizardfolk. Things have calmed somewhat during these winter months, but I think something will need to be done before the spring fishing begins. Please cousin, rest awhile here. I understand you are staying in the barracks, but there is room for you here in the palace. My aunt, Lady Sedara,” here he indicates the red haired woman wearing the lightning bolt pendant, “would be happy to prepare some better accommodations for you. Also, you may want to stay and hear some of the other petitioners. There is at least one other with a tale similar to your own that perhaps you should hear.”

“My lord, please excuse me, but I should return to the barracks until you have further need of me, for I am no fit guest for your halls.”

“Ha! Who is fit before the gods, I ask you? Don’t be so humble cousin Fingol. You have done me a great service, and I may have more need of your services, so please do me the honor of staying for the feast. But if you would prefer, I am sure there is plenty of gruel in the barracks if our fare is too rich.” The other courtiers laugh at this, but not unkindly.

“My lord, I cannot refuse your hospitality and still count myself wise. And if by staying I learn anything which would aid me in your service, I would count myself blessed as well.”

The herald then announces Gar saying, “Now comes before you Gar Dragonsbreath of the Wind Tribe, priest of Obad-Hai, bearing a message to the Prince-Governor from the Great Druidess of the Dreadwood Forest.” From his deep dark brown complexion, dark eyes, and black wavy hair (shaved in a bowl cut) beneath his steel cap Fingol sees that Gar is one of the Flan. Gar’s russet tunic and leggings, beneath which he wears a hauberk for protection, the hornwood quarterstaff he bears, and the carven Green Man pendant around his neck all mark him as a devotee of Obad-Hai, the god of untrammeled nature.

After bowing at the waist before the Prince-Governor with his palms together in prayer, Gar says, “Greetings and Blessings, good sir, from the Great Druidess of the Flan of the Sheldomar Valley! The Great Druidess has sent me here to share her dreams for the good of all creatures and living things.”

Gar then relates to Prince Prospero exactly what the Great Druidess told him about her dreams, her fears, and the reports she had received that corroborated those fears. He ends with a plea to the Prince-Governor to do something to restore the balance of the marshes for the sake of all live there, before it is too late. Palms together, head bowed gently in respect, Gar awaits his response.

The Prince Prospero’s brows frown in concern as Gar delivers his message, particularly when Gar informs him of the role of the fishermen in the dispute. There is much murmuring throughout the court, and Gar hears things like “Can this be true!” or “Bah, the Flan, they are nothing more than a band of ignorant tribesmen living in the swamps. Why does the Prince waste the court’s time with this?” and even, “Ah, as if things are not dire enough – now war with the snakeskins and prophecies of doom from the Great Druidess herself! Alas that we ever came to this gods-forsaken hole!”

The Prince-Governor bangs his scepter on the arms of his throne, like a judge with a gavel. The courtiers’ murmurs fade away. “You have my thanks, good priest, for bringing us this message from the Great Druidess. As you are her spokesman, I cannot but offer you our hospitality as we take your, or rather, her words into consideration. We must think deeply on all that we have been told. In the meantime, please stay for tonight’s feast. Lady Sedara will show you to a room in palace where you can stay.”

Head gently bowed in respect and appreciation Gar says, “Thank you, good sir. I would be happy to enjoy your kind hospitality tonight. It has been a long road. May the gods grant you clarity in your contemplations.”

There are other petitioners, but they have to do with disputes over land, contracts, and other civil matters in and around Westkeep that are irrelevant to the concerns of Fingol and Gar. Assuming that Fingol and Gar have had enough of the tedium of the court, Lady Sedara offers to escort the two of them to their rooms.

On the way to their rooms, Gar says to Sir Fingol, “Good sir, it seems our concerns for the Hool Marshes run a similar course. Perhaps we will be able to assist each other in the future? Rest well. I look forward to seeing you again tonight.”

Fingol glances at Lady Sedara, who is walking within earshot ahead of them, and says, “If you can find some way to prevent violence between the people of the marsh and the lizardfolk, than I am at your service.” At that point, Lady Sedara shows Fingol his room. She reminds them both that the feast will be in the great hall at sunset. She and Gar then proceed to Gar’s room.