Perched on crates as though on a throne, Jorgen studied the gates of Loc Morred. He plucked string on his violin, and listened to its rhythmic thrumming. He loved that sound; there was a purity to it. It was devoid of suffering, there was no hate. Absorbing the immensity of the fort, Jorgen was overwhelmed by the grandiose structure. It was defensible, he knew that. But once you went in, would you ever come out? There was no escape. This castle was a trap if Jorgen had ever seen one.

Jorgen bowed before Usteon, as Jorgen straightened up, he studied the king. The King was resplendent in his turquoise doublet edged with gold trim. His skin was weathered by the sea breezes which tore through Isladoone, his black hair swept back, falling to his shoulders. Green eyes burned bright, his jaw framed by a sculpted beard. A fur trimmed cloak burdened his shoulders, stooping him slightly. Atop his head he wore an iron crown embellished with Aragonite jewels, giving those emerald eyes a deeper intensity.

“Your Grace, I have come to you from Vindaheim as per the contract.” Jorgen said.

The King nodded disconcertingly. “That is good Wayfarer; I hope that the journey was not too demanding on you?”

“No, King it was not. Is the Queen not also here, I was told that she had returned from her estates earlier in the year?” Emerald eyes met brown. There was something troubling about that gaze.

“The Queen is not here at present; there are other tasks that are of greater importance that she must attend to.” Jorgen nodded, cutting off the conversation. The King nodded towards the case Jorgen carried.

“Will you not play me a song, Baerdling?” Usteon asked. Hesitantly Jorgen removed the case from his back, taking out his violin and bow. Raising the bottom of the violin to his chin, he brushed the strings with the bow in quick succession.

“A tide caresses and flows,

Back and forth,

Back and Forth,

The bloody tide grows.

Dissenter in the hall,

Sound the horns,

Sound the horns,

Silenced once and for all.

The Wyvern stands proud,

The Falcon flies,

The Falcon flies,

The Wyvern roars loud.

With broken wing,

The Falcon falls,

The Falcon Falls,

Such a fate does treason bring.

The Falcon bleeds deep

Lying broken

Lying broken

Vengeance a Wyvern may reap.”

The king clapped, and bowed his head slightly.

“Potent, I see that there is to be a great ballad to be written. Is there anything more that you require?”

“We must ensure that the terms are agreeable to both sides.” The king nodded for him to continue.

“For the price of five thousand Sanctums, the Wayfarers will construct a ballad, a ballad for the treaty.”

“That is agreed by the Wyvern Flame.”

*

Jorgen strode to his chambers in the servants quarters untying his daggers and Flare oil. From under his bed, he pulled out his oak chest; he brought it closer to the torchlight to check the lock.

There was no sign of any scuffing around it; it served to be careful. Jorgen removed the key that hung around his neck, smoothly inserting it, turning it listening to the soft clink as it unlocked.

Jorgen reached inside the chest, pulling out a small ornate black case. Opening it, he studied his paint reserves. Red, black and white paint powders were in small decadent glass bottles. A looking glass reflected dully. Removing them and placing them on the bed, he untied his shirt laces taking it off. Diving into his chest once more, he drew out his attire for the evening- a shirt of black and crimson with similarly coloured breeches.

Looking into the looking glass he opened the small black case. He removed a thin brush. He went over to the basin, using one for his goblets to draw some water. He dipped the brush into the water, and then he carefully dipped the brush into the white paint. He started on his cheeks; he had to lather it on thickly. Once his face felt sufficiently lacquered, he wetted the black paint; he traced the hollows of his eyes and painted his lips. He waited impatiently for the paint to dry.

Dipping the brush, he cleaned of the remnants of the black paint off the brush. Now that it had dried, he dipped the brush into the red paint; he raised the looking glass once more. At the corners of his eyes he delicately brushed three red tear drops. He studied his face in the looking glass. Jorgen liked to practice his artistry prior to the main event, preparation was key.

Next Chapter: The Portrait Painter