One would think that the Great Hall of a Duke would be more inviting.
Yet as the party makes their way past the aged, bug-nibbled banners bearing the red sunburst phoenix of House Lores, it is clear that the fireplaces lining the hall have yet to be lit. There is a clear aura of mourning in this stonework hall, as if the long shadows cast by the tall pillars on each side are makeshift funeral garb, draped across the tiles.
Word came to you early in the morning that someone had been murdered within the confines of Castle Lores. Lores, the town in the shadow of the keep, is a relatively small place. Everyone knows everyone and gossip spreads like a pox. It was not until later that the rumors were confirmed that it was indeed the Duke's young heir, Calliphan Lores, a boy of 9 and a half, whose throat was cut in his bedchambers during the night. It is common knowledge that the boy was the only male heir to the Duchy, as Duke Lores himself has no true-born sons to his name.
A dozen riders bearing the Lores banner rode out before the sun had breached the Eastern summits in pursuit of the killer, who had apparently fled the city on a shaggy horse by the name of 'Sweetie Pie', if the Stableboy Paxton is to be believed.
You all have been summoned to the Great Hall by the Seneschal, named Bradigan of Kossos[/b. He is a thinly built Half-Elf with a crooked nose and gaunt features, as if the life had been drained out of him through a spicket in his neck, leaving only a paltry amount of blood to sustain him. His eyes are sunken and reddened around the edges, and his lips quiver from the mild cold that has seeped into the Great Hall.
[b]"You're half-late, sires and sirelings." He coughs out, holding a hand to his faded doublet as if it would calm his sickness. "I am informed you are men of wildblood, and surveyors of these lands. Is my-" Bradigan offered another slew of coughs, rubbing his throat. "-information accurate? Are you 'hardy souls'?"
"Lord Lores sent out a dozen of his most skilled guardsmen on horseback this morn, though even that many men has not satisfied his Lordship. He yearns to send another party up into the Malar Pass in hopes that with two parties searching for that despicable whoreson, one will surely be successful." Bradigan pauses, looking over the group with the eyes of a hawk with clipped wings. "Ah, yes. The identity of the murderer. Poor Calliphan's tutor, a man of small account and even smaller honor, it seems. He is a halfling by the name of Sellano Sellena. We were foolish to trust a Southern half-man with a foreign tongue. Those with southern blood are all killers, I tell you. They have no cold to humble them."
"Sellano was seen whipping a horse into full gallop northward, towards the Malar Pass. It is my reckoning that he hopes to evade any pursuers in that god-forsaken blizzard. If you are wise, dress warmly. Such cold can kill a man where he stands as surely as any arrow or blade."
Bradigan pulls out a hastily inked decree, opening it up to show it to the party, the Duke's seal in recently cooled wax at the bottom. "His Lordship is prepared to offer stout lands, Knighthoods and Lordships to any who aid in the return of this criminal so that he may watch the half-bastard hang for the murder of his nephew. I am to repeat, bring Sellano Sellena back here alive. Though, I myself must add that 'barely alive' is suitable to myself and the Duke included."
Placing the decree away, the thin Half-Elf extracts another larger piece of paper, offering it to the closest party member.
"Here is the most up-to-date map of the Northlands I could find in the castle library. Have you lot any questions? I hope they are brief. Time is of the essence and every moment to waste here is a moment that half-bastard is getting away."