Old Grey-Boar
M I D V I N T E R
G R E Y H A M E
"Open the gates!"
Slowly and arduously did the heavy oak doors swing open, revealing the two figures on horseback. One was young and vigorous, in the flower of manhood, whereas the other was significantly older with stooped shoulders and a hunched back. He hacked and coughed violently as they entered the city, reminded once more of the dour and oppressive nature of his childhood home. Crooked houses seemed to lean in over them as they passed, with drunkards and harlots stalking every street corner. The young man kept a wary hand on the pommel of his sword, cautious eyes peering from behind his hood into each alleyway they rode past.
"This place," he remarked. "Scum and v-v-villainy. Treachery lingers on the v-very air."
The elder grunted, as if to tell him that wasn't half of it. Heavy rain pelted down on them, as it had since ever setting foot within the region. Summer did not always bring sunshine and rainbows; these lands to the east had ever been beset by bad weather, be it stormfronts from the sea or monsoon-like rainfall, turning the ground into sludge — a trait which explained their inexperience with horses. A greater opposite to the magnificence of Heavenheim could not be found.
They rode up to the dreary castle gates where they were bid to dismount and identify themselves. His brother was ever the paranoid; the arrogant; the coniving.
"I am Thyri, Son of Théodred, Warden of the North," shouted the younger up to the ramparts. "This man here is Bors of House Greythorne, Seneschal of Heavenheim! He's come to p-p-pay respects to Lord Greythorne!" The commander eyed the old man from atop his perch, said something to the man next to him, then vanished from view. A moment later the drawbridge was lowered, revealing the same commander and a retinue of guards. They marched up to the pair, swords sheathed, and up until now it had been impossible to spot the black armbands each man wore. A token of mourning.
"I cannot permit you entry to the castle so armed, my lords. By order of Brindal Greythorne." Thyri cast a glance to his Great-Great-Uncle, who returned a sharp nod. Acquiescing to their demands, he pulled back his wayfarer's coat to reveal a sword and two daggers, allowing the guards to disarm him one blade at a time. Relucantly, he also gave up his longbow and quiver. "It was a gift from my grandfather," he warned the man taking it off his hands. "I expect it b-b-back in one piece."
"Your staff," the commander moved to grab it from the elder. Bors glared up at him. "You wouldn't part an old man of his walking stick, would ye now?" The commander raised an eyebrow, but thought better of challenging him. "If you would follow me, my lords." Though it went against his pride, the old man sought his great-grandnephew's arm for added support lest the mud lay claim to him.
"Are we t-too late, do you think," asked Thyri. Grey-Boar scoffed.
"He's too gods-damned stubborn to pass on without a fight."