Quoted By:
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">Diplomacy 33 vs DC 20</span></span>
"Calm yourself, Boric," your voice cuts through the tension before the room can erupt in shouting and alarm. Ever dutiful, Boric deflates, looking at you in askance. Your eyes lock upon the instigator of all this anger, whose faint smile does not some much as quiver. "No one in this room is our enemy. Save your rage for the battle against the heretics."
"If that is your will, my Lady," Boric does not sound happy. Like many of your men-at-arms, he does not take affronts to your honor and reputation kindly. A trait you can appreciate, but can also lead to situations like today.
"Do tell me that you mean the <span class="mu-i">Dark One's</span> followers, Dame Louise," Damien asks, a sly look upon his face.
If his voice did not sound so satisfied at your reaction, you might have answered him. Instead, you turn to the more sensible of the King's heretics and say, "Fiona, I believe it best that we adjourn for tonight and regroup in the morning. The journey has been long and tempers are high, and I would like to give our pagan friends time to process things."
"Agreed," Fiona says before Damien can complain about how you ignored him. He gives her a look like a petulant child, that she ignores, rolling up the map. "Damien and I are put up in the inn, should you have need for us. Let us break our fast together on the morrow, when we've all had the opportunity to sleep on matters."
"I look forward to it." Standing from the table, you turn an offer your hand to the Chieftain, and then the Priestess. They both hesitate to take it for a moment, with a look that's not quite certain that you won't rip the arm they offer off. "Thank you for your hospitality, Chief Rodrim. Have a good evening, Natasha."
The priestess and the chieftain stare after you as you and Boric take your leave. You're not quite sure which one of them says "O-Of course, you too..."
Camp sits just outside the village, keeping a respectful distance from the homes and fields of the mountain folk. The tents have been pitched in a fallow field left to clover and offered by the yeoman who tends to it. Six great tents encircle a fire pit where the campfire has been lit, and the servants among your camp followers have put on a stew.
The largest two to serve as barracks for the men-at-arms. The next largest pair house the camp followers, whose job is to attend to your band's needs upon the road. The most ornate, from which your standard flies, serves double duty as quarters for you and your retinue, as well as command. The last is a pavilion to serve as the mess.
You sup with your men-at-arms, letting some of their more bawdy jokes that fly around go beneath your notice. It reminds you of the camp talk in your youth, though <span class="mu-i">you</span> as the freshest face in the camp oft found yourself as the subject matter.
Which was not a bad thing. Admiration from men can be nice, even when it's crude.
As the evening grows old, a young boy with a wooden sword approaches the camp.
