Winter of 373
Astenvale Monastery, Within the Valen Wilds
In the Sanctum of Operations
"I understand your misgivings, Syr Damir, but Lord Dunstable would have been left in the wind had we sent none to support," Helena's eyes were trained on the map of the Valen before them. Figurines of stone, finely carved in the shapes of the Lords and Barons that dotted the territories beyond the Wyld's protection.
The map itself was a work of extraordinary cartography. Made with a living ink, that, if coaxed by magicked hand, could retrace and reform as the boundaries and borders of the territories shifted. Currently, it marked the known battle lines between Dunhold and Jarnlan, the figurines of each Lord's forces there upon the requisite field. As was a pale coin, upon which their Order's Sigil was carved.
"For all the evils that we face, we cannot afford to have a Lord so brazen as, Hugo Järnberg, go unchecked," she said firmly, but kept her head bowed to the man who was likea father to her.
In the near distance, Knights duty bound to the goings on of this innermost room tended seeing pools, wrote missives, and ran reports as others updated the grand map of Aerethil, muralled across the span of the eastern wall. Small markers that glowed with magick were shifted by long reaching tools that carefully traced across the illustrated plane. Each marker represented the last known position of knights afield. Each color, a status. Blue, in rest. Green, on the move. Yellow, in action. Red, in peril. Black, missing in action.
They were like stars, too few against the wide expanse about them.
Dejan Damir Selene
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