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Amalric Maulesel walked into his war room and sat in his war chair. Like in Edgar Allen Poe's short story The Masque of the Red Death or the Spice Girls' bus in the the movie Spice World, Amalric's castle had many rooms themed for their royal uses. There was a war room, a very blood-thirsty and masculine place. There was also a peace room and a glory room and a music room and a beauty room and, of course, a hall of iron. But in the war room, Lances and spears decorated the torch-holder, the chairs were studded in spikes, and the windows were barred like a prison. The countenance of his great great great great great uncle, who was once king, glared cruelly from the top of his chair. Behind Amalric, very large steel swords were mounted on the wall. They were stained with the ancient blood of defeated kings.

Amalric wore about half of his armor, which made him sit up straight and look especially stiff. "I thought this was supposed to be a negotiation for peace. Why are we in the war room?" Sir Münche said, bending down to hover over Amalric's shoulder. Amalric ignored him easily, staring coldly at the door that the Sorelian Prince would soon be announced at. Beneath his armor, his hair stood on end. "Sire!" Trumpets sounded. "Sire! This is irresponsible!" Amalric's hand shot up, grabbed Sir Münche by the collar and yanked him so close that he smelled the sauerkraut Amalric had just eaten for lunch.

"Enough," he frowned. "I do not wish to make peace. He is a liar when he says he comes to make peace. Do you think I am an idiot?"

The peace room was actually currently being used by his mother, the old queen. She was having a eggnog siesta with the wives of the nobility. His mother was very fond of the peace room and its many flowers and happy wall carvings, but this was not the reason why he conducted his affairs in the war room. Amalric did not like Vortigern. He had heard that Vortigern had the the mouth of a stoat and the eyes of a snake. He had also heard that when Vortigern was a baby, a fairy had given him a rat's tail (which he kept hidden under his pants), blood red eyes, and a low tolerance for alcohol. He was, indeed, a devil in this kings imagination. He was practically Amalric's polar opposite. Amalric did not like Vortigern. And because Amalric was no princess, who must obey the rules of her culture and be submissive, he did not have to pretend to like Vortigern. Barbarian politics are much more simple-minded than those of the Rome-worshippers, but in a world with fancy letters of words Amalric cannot understand, well, he can only say yes or no on the messages sent to him from abroad. The letter had come to him out hunting the she-griffin, and he had scribbled a 'yes' only to later learn what it meant. He accepted his mistake dryly, and prepared the castle for his guest.

Now, Amalric's mother had also told him that Vortigern had the rude tendency to insult whomever woman he lusts after. She called it an awful habit, but impossible to fix or change in the man's nature. Its called reverse psychology, she had said smartly and half tipsy one night at a feast. Woman intimidate the poor boy like nothing else. He feels naturally inferior, and so, all he can do complain. Helen Maulesel had once visited the Kingdom when she was still young and Amalric's father was still alive. Amalric had only met Sorelians in the recent skirmishes by the Reilingen outposts.

Taking his mother's advice, Amalric had made sure that every person who assisted his enemy to this oval table he sat at, was a woman. And the most intimidating women he could find. He made sure they were all very loud and opinionated and vengeful and that they liked to drink and tease the men around them. Many were the sisters of squires and the royal guards, and they were a lively bunch of ladies that had conquered the eastern tower as their dormitory. They worked as maids, cooks, and ladies-in-waiting. All kept their frizzy hair in braided buns, and new the most revolting songs.

Amalric had also tripled the number of cats that prowled the corridors. Whatever could make the rat-tailed prince uncomfortable.

And while Sir Münche disliked the idea of going to war, the old advisers and nobles that joined Amalric at this table cracked their knuckles and rubbed their helms. They , too, had worn their armor, and as they waited quite enthusiastically. They talked amongst themselves about how many men from their manors they could suit up and horse and strategic locations to set their men. They had not battled in a while and their memories of organized campaigns for death had changed flavor like warhead candies. It was about time to pop another.

After Amalric lost his temper, albeit briefly, Sir Münche bit his tongue, and was about to speak up against his king, but the horns had finished their ditty and heavy oak door opened for the enemy to take his place at the table.

"Hail, Prince Vortigern," a woman with a deep voice said to announce the man we all have waited for, and she stepped to the side and stood perfectly with her hands in front of her skirts. And despite the threatening fist Amalric mashed onto the table, he still had the chivalry in mind to read off his demands and hopefully the fool would find the wisdom to surrender.

Amalric, first of all, has an awful habit of snoring. When he first begins to fall asleep and has reached nothing deep, it is merely a light bubbling in his nose. But if he dreams, as he is this dry autumn afternoon, or sleeps in the deepest, most refreshing, and rarest of ways, he snores with a thundering, turbulent, throaty gargle. At its lightest, breathing out, he sounds like a growling dog, and at its worst, breathing in, his tongue flops in his mouth so much that it has even scared Sir Münche into thinking he was choking. Many times, he has been woken up by his men with a fist in his stomach. Usually, Amalric doesn't dream. He travels too much to dream, often sleeping in cold caves or cricket meadows or the human-jungle of taverns. In Nordeberg, however, he sleeps well, his queerest subconscious thoughts release themselves and all that exhausted him on his journeys would extinguish itself in the healthiest of way.

Amalric had only just begun a dream of griffin wings, snails, and puppy dog tails, the yellow beak and the over-powering weight of his armor turned nightmarish. A touch of drool had begun to leak from his open mouth, and his wolfish snore was transitioning into that of a bear's. The Griffin beat its mighty wings, but the clattering feet of his horse was suddenly disturbed and replaced with the clatter of feet on planks of wood laid down on the royal arms tent's dirt floor. Amalric snorted a bit awake. His nose was hopelessly clogged and bothered, and he rubbed it as he met Sir Münche and another knight with pounding steps. Then remembered where he was - the armory, right, polishing. For every man was the master of his own armor. How much time had passed? His mouth felt dry from being open for two hours. And he's hungry too. Hungry to the deepest part of his gut - sleep does this. He could not remember what he had for breakfast and he craved a second. His eyes switched from the more nervous Sir Münche, who had a desperate look in his eye, to the gaping foreigner. He began to clear his throat, tell his man to wipe that stupid look off his face and get a plate of meat, cheese, and bread, when a woman's voice spoke from the other end of the table, in the direction of his other shoulder. Her voice had been quick and boastful.

He turned immediately with an accusing, hostile glare - a look he might give the lion-hawk if he saw her feasting on a cow from the reaches of its cliff. It was unforgivable for a woman to be in a jouster's tent. She had nothing to be proud of, and he was every inch a boss, a herder of awful little brothers, and a tolerater of plotting, giggling, baby-sock-knitting mothers. He was never so amorous a fellow to take the ripped petticoat of his lady love in a private place, where she might give him, perhaps, more confidence that a rag of luck. Instead, he snatch his quick kiss on the cheek from a lady sitting on the stands, and that was that. So he shifted from the two knights to the lady, his arm thumping on the table like a bartender setting down a heavy drink to a character he was suspicious wouldn't pay.

"What is this?"

"My Lady!" uttered the strange knight.

"Sire, this is Princess Luciana le Valois. You're fi - "

"I know perfectly well who she is!" Amalric interrupted. He knew the name, and he recognized the face too now, as there had been a portrait sent years ago. She wasn't very much like the ladies of his kingdom, whose fashion was thick and heavily embroidered with hair knotted in spiraling braids close to their heads. There was always a sort of frizziness about them and they laughed louder than they spoke. Luciana le Valois, he judged, was sleeker, and he looked her in the eye as he leaned back slumping in his chair, knitting his hands over his stomach. Her lips were pressed in a tight, checked laugh.

And while Sir Erec might wonder at King Amalric's rudeness for slumping in front of his charge, Sir Münche might wonder about the princess's straight posture as a sign of her nervousness and orthodox formality, which made him nervous and tightly formal as well. Sir Münche had been worriedly shifting from the princess to the king. He had been there the day Luciana le Valois's portrait had arrived in Nordeburg castle. He had been at the King's side as he always was, and Amalric too recounted the day vaguely with a hint of stubborn displeasure, and so, he remembered it differently than Sir Münche. If both were to tell the story, the knight's account would have been more honest than the king's. But Amalric, or course, would not have ever given Sir Münche the chance to explain.

So as Amalric looked at Luciana le Valois, at her ruby lips, pale cheeks, and dark straight hair and he at last settled into the sad smile as one confronted with a dish of pig's blood and intestines when they had no favorable impression of such dish. Fiances! They are an overpoweringly sweet and sour taste, but Amalric inhales his food and strong flavors get in the way of his appetite. So yes, fiances, he considers, are their own spoonful of bad medicine, along with mothers and even Sir Münche when he's feeling passionate. But the story of Luciana le Valois's portrait was a long one and though it might take some words to tell, it can be assured these characters of Landgraben recalled the chaos and confusion as one might snap his fingers.

The portrait arrived in a convoy from Armorica, bearing barrels of pickled fish paste among other delicacies to Landgraben. Amalric welcomed the company, for he loved an excuse to feast, and the boars were hunted and ducks shot in the valley's lake. Prince Tristan had introduced himself in the grand hall, to greet Amalric on his throne, where most other Kings like Uther and Cendred sat at this time of day. Though it be dull and rife with business, there is always an hour for a king to sit on his throne and go about the business of his country. The prince had bowed on one knee as is the universal custom of chivalry. A fur cloak was thrown over the Prince's shoulders as a gift and a symbol of welcoming and protection. Everything was going as it it had for centuries. The beer flowed, the meat sizzled, and the foreign men had decided they liked this nook in the mountains. Amalric, every so often, would cast his eyes on the foreigners, and he was happy they seemed content. They often clinked their cups and laughed like his own men. Because they seemed alike to the the Landgraben folk, jolly and half-drunk they got along well with the local nobles and knights.

At dinner, right after Amalric had a second hearty slab of roast venison slapped on his plate and two more ladles full of honeyed carrots and boiled coal-lump potatoes, the portrait was presented. He had not been informed of the convoy's purpose. Indeed, his mother knew, and the convoy thought he knew, for why else would they trek all the way from the sea? Amalric felt interrupted from his meal, eating of prime importance, when Prince Tristan stood in the empty space of the floor. It was there that a bear might be chained or a jester spew his tricks. Two other ambassadors held the heavy canvas, toddling like crabs behind the royal. After a brief announcement and introduction of his happiness for the planned union, the portrait was unveiled and declared a gift for the king.

It was a dark composition, struck in shades of dark blue and purple with specks of teal and pale gray lacing her dress and the color of her eyes, which Amalric noticed first. He stared at it, quite taken with it and fancying it well-made. He wondered what the paint was made of. The brushstrokes were invisible, the texture and shine of the velvet gown impossibly real. "Beautiful," he'd said under his breath, referring more to the composition than the person illustrated. Only, when he came to the face and studied it, and the girl's round countenance and subtle nose mirrored Prince who stood beside her, he suddenly realized what he had gazed at so lovingly was the other le Valois twin. He had stared at the picture for quite some time, admiring it - for paint was no art known in Landgraben. The artisans made exquisite jewelry, wealth that would not be ruined in the dry winter. The King had yet to travel to the grand museums and galleries in the valleys and richer kingdoms, and though he had heard of such art, his education had not consisted of its study.

But the teenage Prince Tristan now looked uneasy. Amalric looked away, shoving Sir Münche to change the subject. His mother gawked on his other side, and in her middle-aged, widowed mom's high pitched shrill, she pinned her displeasure by roaring his name. "I apologize, my dear, he's still shy about women," she then said to the prince, who didn't seem to know what to do as Amalric turned to his mother even more embarrassed. "It's love at first sight, I knew it would be!" The queen beamed, rubbing Amalric's shoulder to his horror. He jostled in his seat, his cheeks tinted with the mixture of ale and the situation. He wanted to look at Prince Tristan, shake his head and explain, but it would also mean yielding to the inappropriateness and cultural barbarism of never seeing a painting before. So he did the only thing he could think to do - he lifted his cup. His mother towered above him, hands akimbo, thinking her son as so utterly adorable despite being all grown up. His three brothers were hooting with laughter at another table. The twenty-five year old buried his face into his palm and nursed his mug, while his mother smiled proudly. When Helen Maulesel signed the marriage contract, she used her biggest signature. She then began a long speech about children and grandchildren and the future of the kingdom. While she spoke, Amalric had grabbed Sir Münche cape, and pulled him in.

"Go tell my brothers to shut up and stop laughing." They were still chortling while the prince turned his back to guide the portrait away. Then, he returned to listen attentively to the Queen's speech. Amalric no longer noticed him however. His two boys were slapping each other on the back now, mimicking and exaggerating their brother's stare, while the twenty-five year old glared death at them across the room. The hooligan's still hadn't learned to behave and they still hadn't completely acknowledged their brother as a king and not one of their fellow trouble-makers.

"But Sire, shouldn't you thank the Prince for his gift?" Sir Münche offered. Amalric had a tight grip on the captain's red fabric, but nonetheless the alcohol-eased man swirled good wine in his goblet with a lackadaisical smile. "I'll give a good whack to the boys soon," he promised after Amalric spitefully removed his drink, took a generous gulp, and put it beside his plate and answered his friend with a sarcastic smile. He was no one's friend today. Amalric released his the captain, bothered, trying to ignore his mother's patronizing smile, as she was just sitting from her speech. He had been crowned not too long ago, at least by his mother's standards, and she knew how to keep her foot in the door.

Unfortunately, Sir Münche only poured himself yet more wine and before Amalric could lunge again for his friend, his mother was elbowing him to say a few words. The hall quieted, and suddenly, the Armorican prince stood out, his arms crossed and an impatient glare directed at his sister's fiance. Amalric stood up - at least he was good at standing up, at looking strong, and by now his brothers finally got the message and settled to listen. Albeit smiling something fierce.

Amalric looked around the chamber, one of the largest in his country. The walls were of mustard yellow stone worn to beige and the high ceiling toted large knotted metal chandeliers. The tables were decked with food, some of which provided by the convoy. His nobility, many of whom could not make it to the castle to celebrate because the journey was too dangerous, had left much room for the knights of his fort. Many a familiar face smiled up at him differently than his devious siblings. Animal heads of the largest boar, deer, and bear were fitted on the wall behind his large wooden chair. The King, swept aside his cloak, and put a hand over his heart. He bowed to the visiting prince. When he looked back up, it was if they had finally met and each acknowledged the other, the bond settled, but of what, Alamric could only hope comradeship.

"If I am lucky enough to be blessed with a wife," he said, keenly glancing at his mother, "I am sure Princess Luciana le Valois would make an excellent queen for Landgraben. I am also glad that the kingdom of Armorica wishes to make an alliance. We have, for a long time, not made an alliance through marriage, and it is a rare and important political commitment." His mother would have him later for such a remark. "I have a great respect for your country, Prince Tristan," he continued, raising his his cup, "and thank you for the portrait of your sister. It is a good piece!"

And now, his brothers on cue burst out laughing. Amalric turned beat red at last as he looked sharply at their table. "He said he'd never get married!" Aiden laughed, barely able to contain it. The younger one, who ought not to be drinking so much, added, "But he just stared and stared!" The eldest fell off his chair, both high off of 'I-told-you-so' glee. Their brother was ten years and thirteen years older and king, but alas, little brothers have no mercy. Music started to play somewhere, over-poweringly loud - Sir Münche had gone missing - and a rambunctious waltz covered up the embarrassing scene. The nobles, sensing the tension got up to dance. The boys' governess, under cover of the crowd, ushered the her charges out though they could barely walk in their fits. How many time did Amalric proclaim that he had no lady he had to wed? How many instance had he pointed out that he could ride around all day and not have to worry about a second mother declaring her displeasure? Never would he ever fall in love!

So returning at last to the armory tent, before him stood the woman in the portrait he had so evidently made a fool of himself over. His forehead was knitted in a pretzel. He had grown since that day, accepted the marriage and then, dusted it to the side once again. The painting had been stored where he would never see it, and because of this, remained in excellent condition. But as the King of Landgraben considered his fiance, her laughter, and the fact that he had once more been made a fool of - found asleep and sneaked up upon - he decided he didn't like her. He would prove his brothers wrong and never call such a lady beautiful.

"I'm sorry, I was not prepared," he said, turning from Luciana to Sir Münche, who immediately bowed. This was most likely his mother's scheming. Amalric, ignoring the incompetent knight, who was meant to be watching the entrance,and sighing something mighty, he stood up from the table. The chain mail played on his fingers as he lifted the mesh to the side. He removed his black leather gloves and the top shell over his chest he had fallen asleep in. The metal ring at his neck had begun to chafe. He set everything on the table.

Then, he approached the lady. He had different manners for foreigners and he used these now. He knelt to Luciana, who had taken over the simple maple chair as if it were an oaken throne. "Excuse me, Princess, this is all quite sudden. But I am King Amalric, you have found me," he said subtly miffed. "And I must eat something right now or I shall die. Sir Münche!!" he shouted, rising and turning around. "Tell the servants to make a lunch! I shall take it outside." He nodded to Luciana, every inch a pompous man who had to eat and fight and be on his way.

He walked back to the table with armor, heedless of the princess, tightly focused on what needed to be done for the tournament and his bitterness evident in how he disregarded a guest.

"Lunch for two?" the captain of knight asked, raising his fingers and chuckling. Amalric soured, cornered. "Yes, you imbecile, for two."

"Might be better to eat here Sire! Its very crowded outside, and your guest is very beautiful, too beautiful for the lot of knights," Sir Münche said kindly. Amalric let a moment for the woman to acknowledge the compliment before grumbling "If you suggest." While Amalric cleared the table of weaponry and all kinds of steel fittings and repair pieces, a servant hustled in with rye bread, buttercheese, sliced smoked meat, and cherry preserves, set neatly in a basket. Finally, Amalric sat down at the table, and taking a thick slice of rye, a heel of cheese, and several cuts of fat-speckled bratwurst, he queried, "How was your trip, my Lady?"

Amalric shielded his eyes with his hands and stupidly looked up at the sun. He and his troop of five were ambling through a gentle wood. The men had seen little deer, but rabbits were aplenty. Chunks of smoked rabbit and deer flesh hung from the packs of the mule, and they swayed on the twine to the mule's gait like a delicious pendulum. The animal was a strong little fellow. By now, it had developed thick haunches and beefy legs since it had left the royal mule stables in Landgraben. It had also finally lost the habit of biting the leather harness of its pack - the nervous habit worn away as the king increased the pace of the hunt.

The king rode on his brown Percheron fully dressed in Griffin hunting armor. Two hunting dogs loped at his feet, noses stuffed into the twigs and wet leaves. Sir Münche road a half a horse behind.

"Sire, there is a small village ahead," he said. He was holding the map today. "What do you make of it?"

"It is too early to halt now. Look, it is only noon. Best to press on," he concluded briskly and he pushed Gehrtie on under her two layers of lucky chain mail and a leather dressing over that embroidered with the details of mules.

He looked everywhere through the thin slits of his helm - noting all the fallen trees, disturbed areas in the dirt, only the noise of the birds not frightened away from the giant, clambering duo and their nosy dogs. Once more, he went on ahead of his men. He often went at his own pace and ignored theirs as an old grandpa dog keeps going even when the pups he's babysitting stop and play. Besides, their horses were more lightly dressed than their King's and they would soon catch up with him after a moment's rest. Like this, they continued through the forest until they reached the outskirts of the village. Here, the men slowed down while the Amalric went onward. They usually did not travel through a village they did not plan on staying in.

"Is something the matter, Sire?"

"She's close," he shouted back while steering his horse onward. "I can sense her. She's not far now." They hadn't seen the Griffin in two weeks. Neither had he found any trace of Griffin droppings or her molting feathers. He swore he would find the trail again. Soon, Gehrtie clopped on cobbled roads and his men followed behind him in single file. They were a queer group to behold. Their leader kept his head tilted to look up at the sky, and so, he seemed as if he might fall off his mount at any moment. Behind him, the Landgraben knights kept the hounds close on their leashes. The dogs still hadn't gotten their heads out of hunting. They peed on the signposts as if they were trees, but were yanked on by the horses before they could finish.

Amalric continued to look into the sky and luckily, Gehrtie had a mind for the path,. The road was straight, and she would follow it loyally until her rider directed otherwise. They passed rows of quaint cottages, with little gardens out in front. Brooms leaned on the outside of many a doorway, probably the country homes of bourgeoisie merchants or local artisans. It was a quiet neighborhood, and whether the people were sneaking peaks out their windows or taking their afternoon naps depended on the politics of the kingdom. As they neared the town center, they were confronted with a humble square with a drinking fountain, bread shop, smithy, and tavern. These humble buildings displaying the same goods every village needs no matter what country one is in.

Amalric would have walked right on through, ambling like a surreal cowboy back into the forest. Gehrtie just went on and on, hooves like a toy monkey's cymbals. Amalric just started at the sky thinking about the Griffin and what she must be doing right now like some forlorn lover. He thought of the white griffin droppings and the piles of bones they sometimes coughed up as owls do. He had a few griffin dropping with him, in fact. They were preserved in one of the pouches that bounced on Gehrtie's saddle also in time to the mule's smoked meat. He wished he could meet some fresh droppings.

The tavern's fountain was an old device. He turned Gehrtie to it from the sky in act of stubbornness. He was tired of thinking of the Griffin. If he thought of her, he would never get his mind back into the hunt. He had to keep his eyes open for signs - and one can't see Griffin tracks in the sky no matter how much they travel through it. So, he had to keep Gehrtie refreshed, as well as the horses of the men. The fountain was connected to a water trough, where several steeds had been tied to drink. Another horse was also there. This horse was untied and unsaddled, standing off to the side from the other horses like it didn't trust the water they drank. Amalric twisted in his saddle to face Sir Münche, while pointing at the stray horse.

"What is this?" he said quickly. "A horse walking about the town? What kind of place is this?"

"The others are tied up though."

"That does not explain the white one," Amalric said. He tried leaning forward on Gehrtie, making flicking motions with his wrists to see if the horse would shy away, but it just stared at him calmly as if it were in a meadow. Gehrtie seemed thirsty and he soon stopped and paid more attention to her. She was happy enough to prance to the drinking trough, but Amalric stubborn Amalric kept her away and continued to discuss the curiosity with his knight.

"This is not natural," Amalric concluded.

"Perhaps it is wild and wandered into town," Sir Münche suggested.

"It is too fat," Amalric replied. Indeed, it had a healthy girth to its belly that seemed to glow like the moon. Breaking away his interest, Amalric finally lead his horse to water while his men wavered and gaped at the white horse swishing his tail now and nibbling at the weeds growing between the cobblestones. The dogs looked at it silently too, and a few laid down despite the energy bred into their blood. When he had finished fixing his mare, he twisted off his helmet with a smacking pop. He trundled over to his men and his dogs, who now stood in a messy pile watching the horse as well-behaved children at their favorite zoo animal exhibit.

"What are you, in love?" Amalric said while looking again at the horse and admiring its body. Sir Münche didn't really answer him. For a moment, they were silent. Think of how modern guys might look at a sports car and you'll understand their lust.

Then, interrupting their shameless gaze, a woman popped out of the tavern, nimbly climbing down its two steps. She strode in an easy prance, almost like a horse's canter, to the white beast. She had long, braided platinum blond hair and pale skin tanned only with the dust of no recent bath. She looked, in fact, very similar to the working-class women of Landgraben. Ahh! But she wore rabbit. Amalric nudged Sir Münche.

"She wears rabbits, look," he said hushed.

"I see, I see," the knight said. They paused, watching the horse rise up from his grazing and brighten at the appearance of the lady She touched him easily, the creature drawn to her. Like a magician pulling a coin from a fair lady's ear, she presented the lovely horse and apple, and while it ate, she cooed precious, private words into its ears. "She must be of the same tradition!" Sir Münche gasped. "Without a doubt!"

"We are lucky today," Amalric said, kissing the iron of his helmet. "Hold this," he then ordered, shoving the piece up and Sir Münche promptly relieved it from him. They believed this lady to be one of those witches that wooed horses and to sell them for a living. They were a rare kind of woman to stumble across and they used more complicated potions than the average love dope to secure the heart of a beast whose ancestors might take a thousand years to domesticate. They wore rabbit hide as proof that they could lure the shiest creatures to their doom. Amalric rubbed the dirt out of his hair.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"You look fine," Sir Münche hurriedly whispered as if they were hunting a animal that might run away if it noticed them. "Just be careful. She could be something else."

Straightening up, Amalric approached the duo who were now mushing their faces together in some sort of magical bonding ritual. He walked very slowly, for he feared the love spell might have some effect on him. Still, he was certain the magic cast on animals was entirely different from that cast on humans.

But of course, in all reality, what did he know?

"This is quite a well-built horse! Do you think it could carry my weight?" he interrupted, speaking as if he were at a horse market. He waited, expecting a flattering exaggeration of the horses greatness in all qualities. You know how bargaining begins: a compliment, some small talk on the merchandise, and then a casual estimation of how much the owner would let it go for. Amalric was confident he would get what he wanted and he struck the smile of a polite potential costumer. He was a king, after all, and he had a healthy sum on him hidden in the folds of the carrier mule.

Below Nordeberg's mustard stone, Landgraben's harvest fair transformed the brown, trodden ways of the valley into a mountain range of tents. The garish red, yellow, and blue sails nestled among the alpine geography proclaimed the wealth of the King's guests, the dyes used for their manufacture expensive and exotic. For centuries, the base of Nordeberg walls extended barren to the outlying trees, where the land sloped up again. The area had been used for centuries for the fair, the earth hardened by numerous travelers.

The Harvest fair was a grand week. The ground was littered with gourds, apple cores, and the droppings of precious cattle with sagging, butter-soft coats. Stewed venison and roast wild boar sat in great dishes or was ladled out of steaming soup caldrons. There was even flesh of the wild duck served at vendors and on Amalric's table, garnished with a sweet berry jam. The finest brews were poured and the night cradled the lullaby of many a drunken miner's song.

Most of the iron smithies were done for the season and the mines would be barricaded off soon. Blizzards were dangerous in Landgraben, and so, when winter hit, the people went into a sort of hibernation until the season had passed. This time of year, the storerooms were fuller than they would ever be with honey, milk, oats, preserved currants, wheels of cheese, smoked fish and other flesh, among the turpentine, wool, rope, and a reserve supply of iron ingots. These were the best times of the year, the days when all that was sewn was harvested and a man scratched his head in front of his cache and wondered if he could ever starve again.

Landgraben's fair hosted a war tournament amongst vegetable, hound, and livestock competitions. King Amalrich Maulesel, accompanied by his squire brothers and his knights, rode the grounds dressed in his thickest armor. Every now and then, he would lift his visor and smile, turn to his brother Aiden and tell him that that is how you hold your injured hound. The wriggling canine, what we might consider a mix between a German Shephard and a St. Bernard, was no easy feat to cradle. He rode confidently ahead of his men, his horse lifting him above the mess on on the ground, his armor blinding him from lepers and pretty ladies alike.

These days, he would visit the maroon and violet tents, firmly grab the hands of his nobles and neighbors, and salute the sons that would participate in the sparrings, duels, and jousts. Amalric greeted all with his helm in the crook of his arm and his sword held by an accompanying knight. He shouted loudly wherever he went, bellowing salutations and farewells in a rich accent and his company shouted back, for all had the ale in their blood.

Each night, he supplied a feast in his halls for his men and allies, not a fancy show, but delicacies were spread. Music played amid the history of moth-bitten wool tapestries and polished hunting horns. His castle, though mustier, wetter, and colder than Camelot, broke the wind that charged the mountain pass. There were candlesticks that branched like tree limbs and fireplaces that could roast a horse, but there is warmth enough provided by alcohol and cramped quarters. The Grabenites learned how to live in this harsh country years ago. They know how to work, to mine efficiently during the safer months, and they know how to relax and take a load off, kick up their feet and bath in each other's company.

So the question of the day was, how many knights would be sober for the coming joust? How many had gone to sleep before midnight, bowed away from the dog-like men that licked their cups in packs? How many were guilty of refusing that one more mug of beer that 'couldn't hurt'? Was all of the night's and morning's drink still in Amalric's system? He had left the hall when the sky had lightened but the sun had yet to rise.

So now, the time was noon and the first day of his joust. He had shaken all the hands that had arrived - the fairs third day kicking up in the ground's below his keep. He spent his free time this morning sleeping, and when he finally returned to his battle gear, his mind was weighed down by a stuffy heaviness like his thoughts bore a rusted suit. He picked through the gloves, helms, chest plate, and metal chain mail, rubbing the crux of his nose. He wished one of his brother squires might come to help him prepare. Now where were they off to? Aiden would be knighted in less than a year, but Amalric's mind soon wandered away from the irresponsible prince as he continued to pick through the armor laid out. One of his noble's horses had died on the journey to the fair - he had promised to replace it with a breed from his own stables. He mulled over which he would surrender as he meandered through the complicated armor pieces. A griffin might pick through her cow bones in his manner of picking up the metal and rolling it before his eyes. He took each piece in his hands and weighed it, checking for broken chains, knicks or dents. He was slow and thorough. He still had three hours to suit up and the lazy autumn sunlight cast a warmth more powerful than the great Hall's candles. Soon, his bum met the polisher's stool, his hands folded on the table, his head laid sedated upon the folded mesh of a handsome chain mail coat, and his light, gruff snore could be mistaken by many a hunting page as that of a hibernating bear.