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The night was half lit by the waxing moon of Mannslieb above. Everything about the area had just the subtle bleachness to its color. After that though it was more and more difficult to see things as Mannslieb was unable to pierce the shadows casted by the high walls of Castle Bastonne.
Behind the clouds was Morrslieb, waiting amongst the shadow of Mannslieb to surge forward and dominate the sky from its sibling. Many peasants would swear, even as they looked upon the crescent moon, that it looked to have been smiling at its brother from afar. It was simply waiting against its foster brother, a chance for it to leap forward and usurp the skies.
Its chance would come. The moon and those who worshiped its coming knew through prayer that the time of damnation and domination across the lands and tides was upon them. Perhaps, of the chance presented itself, the moon would try and usurp the sun which shined in the day. In doing so it would gain absolute dominion over the Old World.
The guards within Castle Bastonne did not worry themselves with such divine machinations. Their eyes focused instead on the here and now instead of some omens that few mad prophets of the seeing god claim to witness. Their eyes were somewhat tired, even though the time for sleep has yet to come their bodies threatened to abandon their wills. To sleep under the early night of onsetting winter.
They did not though. Instead they stood guard over their ward, Duke Guion, for he saw one last soul fit for his attention. Many of those guards disagreed, seeing the man standing before them as nothing more than a pest upon these blessed steps of Castle Bastonne. No peasant was allowed to even look upon these blessed walls after all, let alone walking inside what was once the home of Gilles the Uniter!
Others disagree, for the one who stood within this hall was the Slayer of an Ork Warlord. Those who had witnessed the maelstrom of violence that a man blessed by the God of the Dead could exact upon all living creatures.
Such was the divide at court. Unlike places like the Empire, in Bretonnia every Nobleman in a sense had power behind their words. If they believed it to be so they would place their blades behind it, by which they create real power.
So even the Guards, as long as they were a Knight, could sway the opinion of a Duke by declaring it as such. The Duke knew this and yet he still opened his court to the Black Knight.
