To bring those unfamiliar up to speed somewhat with Godric
The Mounted Toren follow the road through Troyes towards Bescanon. Five score and five warriors bring perhaps two or three retainers each. Holding the office of Chief of Justice, Godric alone brings a dozen scribes along with him, as well as a scattering of additional men to ensure things run smoothly. Marching neatly (mostly) in three columns, his men stretch a furlong and two thirds as the company snakes down the road. The hooves make a dull drone combined with the idle chatter of men. Godric marches only a few rows back from the front in the middle, his face dirty with dust and sweat, his hair is long and pulled back, grey and sharply receding at the corners. A beard is trimmed short but it looks somehow scant. His eyes are light but his gaze is heavy. He murmurs to himself sometimes, the men pay no mind, content to allow such a strict disciplinarian to daydream.
***
Home. Godric thinks about home a lot these days. He has no wife and all his bastards have died, two here in the Xavax Wars he was told, one when the Far East sank and the boat was pulled below, and another long long ago when his father said he was too young to have a bastard clamouring at his heels. He never truly knew how his first child died. He doesn't need to know. He dreams sometimes of a face he has never seen but has always known. He smiles warmly, spear aloft, before his face darkens and he begins to hack and growl. That is when he runs away with the wolves. Godric doesn't know what this dream means but he has dreamt it since he was a boy, the face always the same age as him. That wolf-friend has always been with him.
Winding streets. Running and playing as a boy. Home were those winding roads, an elder always ready to tell the boys to learn them roads, it is how we have protected ourselves. The cool mountain air blows even under a hot summer sun as a gang of boys sprint off into a shady alleyway. His mother's light scolds, her laugh, the twinkle in her eye when she looked upon him. She had light eyes as well before she passed. Those young days gave way to long days of tutoring and training: he did not know his father when he was very young but when he became a squire he realized who the tall, dark visitor was. Warborn they called him, Destroyer of Valkyrja, Scourge of Saxons. Other names too but those were the ones Godric liked.
Most men simplified his father down to a single trait, wrath. It was not incorrect but Godric was privy to some quiet moments with him... His father was mystical, elemental, like a sweeping tide, mysterious, opaque. He was not wrathful, a fire does not know it burns all it touches, he was simply in line with his nature. His father spoke of bizarre things, the Nourishing Tree, the Veil, to endure through death, to seize the hearts of other men by will alone. He did not know what these things meant before but slowly he is understanding. Warborn was distant at best, Godric understood he had a number of aunts and uncle from some far land of Taleri but such a place was lost beneath the waters now.
Home. So far away. Was Godric, too, a sweeping tide? Did death follow him? Was that his nature? Why do those close to him die? Godric is murmuring now. He sees the Nourishing Tree. The connection between men. He sees himself as a rot slowly spreading.
***
"Look at us," he spits on the side of the road, "two Eponli carrying the !@#$ing bags of these Toren-Xavax-whatever !@#$s." He looks to his friend who snorts with him. They don't actually care. Some fresh faced Toren with a big bag of money said he had no herdmens or bannermens or something and needed some folks to carry his things for the war. No fighting, they'll have to live on camp but it's good pay and the food ain't bad either. The food had been !@#$e so far but it was certainly good pay.
"I reckon, this Chief Justice Lord must be payin' some each of these blokes some two months wages a week!" His friend shakes his head, "no way, two gold pieces each, every week? Nobody is that rich!" The first one shakes his head, "seent the young Lord's purse wasn't snoopin', two gold pieces, near twenny silvers, and a couple dozen coppers if I seen right!" Their pay for three days had been a silver each with a promise for three more silvers each at the end of the week and a dozen coppers additional at the end of the next. Not bad at all.
"But you heard of him, eh? The Lord Justice?" His voice was hushed now. His friend frowns and shakes his head. "A scourge he is. A killer. Bonafide. All these Xavax is killers but they know he's a bad one. Brutal he is. Tortures nobles even." He looks around to make sure he isn't being heard. "Merciless. The Tor god demands blood apparently. Can't control himself. Villages wiped off the map, no survivors. Best be careful. We do this campaign then cut."
They nod grimly at each other, steer clear.
