The camp has been moving. We advance every night, at our own pace, as the Viscount requires stops and detours whenever necessary. But the camp remains as massive and as bustling with preparations as usual. The sound of war drums practicing drills, sergeants training the rookies, the smell of iron. The crows perched above every tree, the tents and the fires. The checking of weapons.
But you? Oh, you little skinless savage, you arrive without ceremony and without the joy of every other mercenary. The greatest tent here is mine: red canvas, decorated with black, adorned with the symbols I've chosen. It glows with the inner lights. The bodyguards look at you, but let you pass. You know these bodyguards; dead men, now also with a strange glint in their eye, looking alive again. One of them sneers a little at you. But come on in, come on right into the war tent!
I am lounging on the sofa, throwing and catching a knife. Unarmored, but still dressed like a prince. I sit up as soon as you come in, crossing my legs. Tail swishing like an annoyed cat.
"So?"
