The Path of Kings

The Return of the King

The Bristling Boar was alive with a busy bustle.

Some locals were concerned about how the war in the south would affect their crops, whilst others shared their knowledge about the peace that was sure to come with the crowning of the new Surtova Queen.

Tradesmen from everywhere plied their trade, selling and purchasing, but above all listening to the rumours of this burgeoning fiefdom. Their wealth would grow as stability rose in the Barony of the Stonemark, but it would likewise diminish if the realm fell to chaos and civil war. The recent execution of some dissidents in Rivercamp by Ivan ivanovich and his men had already caused the more jittery of the traders to move their business to the relative safety of Olegton, but even here whispers of revolution weren’t unheard of.

The night went on, argument flowing into argument, politics turning to agriculture turning to the weather and then to politics again, when suddenly the mummers performing on the stage of the inn went quiet and scurried of the stage.

In strode the Baroness Hegelinde, Lady Stonemark, resplendent in her armour as it reflected the light of the room’s many candles, the shadowy flames of the central fireplace turning her countenance grave and regal. Her shadow followed her, the huge half-orc known as Neega Black, whose mere presence rendered Hegelinde’s armour obsolete.

Three other men completed the party. The old druid, Emrys Cadarn, clad in white robes, walked next to a man in the prime of his life. Even next to the druid he seemed tall , towering over all, his long black hair pulled back into a tight braid, his eyes as grey and as deep as the treacherous sea. Last came the small wizard, Sarjen, a man of the Nomen Province, a pensive look on his face as he scanned the crowd.

The tall warrior bestrode the stage, followed by Emrys while the three others took place before the dais.
The druid raised his voice and it boomed through the inn.

“Hearken ye all and take heed, before you stands Quentin of the blood of kings!”

The old man raised his hands and held out two magnificent jewels, spheres of the deepest orange. He walked three times around Quentin Rogarvia, reciting the incantations of purification and kingship, waving the eyes of Erastil ceremoniously about to drive away demons and foul spells, and then stopped and faced the now kneeling man.

“Upon your shoulders I place the burden of kingship and in the light of Erastil your house will long as righteousness and honour prevail in your line.”

Emrys pulled forth from his sleeves a fine silver circlet, embellished with what shone like the finest mother-of-pearl and placed it on the head of the king.

“Arise now, Quentin, first of the name, King of Brevoy, Prince of Isschia, Lord Rogarvia and Protector of the Realm. May your reign be blessed.”

Half the crowd stared on slacked-jawed, while the other half burst out in wild cheers and applause.

Hegelinde knelt and pledged the loyalty of the Stonemark to the Rogarvian throne and before she had gotten up, word of the return of the king sped towards Brevoy as spies and traders ran from the coming storm.



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