The sky of the eastern plaguelands was bathed in pale red and fiery gold; here, the dawn

broke slowly, as if
even the sun were reluctant to turn it's face to the ruined lands. The chapel of Light's Hope stood as a fierce
beacon of life in the midst of dying tillage, the last vestige of promise and the only command post of the
Dawn's soldiers for leagues. Beneath, the long dead heroes of Lordaeron resided in their eternal dark, their
swords finally at rest, rusting iron lain across stone laps. Here, they were beyond the Lich King's reach;
they would never again rise.

Captain Triss de Lancrét stood at the yawning mouth of her modest pavilion, her expression betraying little
of what her thoughts might contain. Her gaze was fixed immovably on the spread of dawn's light, and for a
moment the Priestess and the Lieutenant might have been forgiven for presuming she had forgotten their
presences.

"Tell me again." She said after a long moment, her voice grave.

The Priestess shifted her weight and threw a nervous glance at the stern-faced Lieutenant. Keanan's face
was unreadable as he shrugged up one shoulder.

"Again, Captain?" Priestess Dae'neen Ron'ae watched their silent, reluctant Captain carefully, wondering -
not for the first time - if her weight of responsibility was too great.

"Again." Triss turned to face her companions and there was no mistaking the glint of steel in her steady
gaze. A reluctant Captain she might have been, but the honour of the company was hers to uphold and
some insults did not pass by easily. "I will need details. This woman-..."

"Karisa de Terim," Keanan supplied gruffly, his thumb and forefinger ponderously steepling a jaw line
heavy with whiskers.

"Yes. That she is here by the Devouts word is certain?"

"So the hooded man claimed." The Priestess spoke up smoothly, her voice clear as still waters.

"Hah." Triss laughed mirthlessly at that. "I find myself disinclined to blindly believe the word of a man
who would not reveal his eyes or his name."

"Captain, what reason would you have to disbelieve him?" The Lieutenant spoke up at once, unflinching
under the reproachful glance Triss sent his way. That Shawn Keanan longed for an end to Lady Amarae
was no secret. "The Devout wishes us all dead, that much is certain. Do you honestly believe that she
would balk at sending an assassin for us? For you?"

"One blade against many." She turned away, unconvinced. Somewhere in the distance, hooves thundered
and men's shouts grew thick in the air. A patrol was returning. Triss paused a moment before speaking
again: "Either she has very little love for this de Terim, or the facts are not as black and white as they would
have us believe."

"Or she thought that one shadow would move swifter than an army. With you and I dead, the Sons would
fall into disarray." Keanan drew his arms to his sides, a deep frown dug all the way into a weathered brow.

"Shawn, the Sons are in disarray as it stands." Triss turned her face to regard him at that and her young
features carried an expression that was much too old for her years.

Shawn Keanan let out a great snort and spat on the ground, affronted by the Captain's foolishness. He
shook his head. "A firm hand and a sightable goal is all they-..."

"Then you be my damn hand, Shawn!" Triss cried, fierce and indignant in the growing light of dawn. "I
scarcely asked for this. You know that."
"They will follow where Greymantle leads," He began stolidly, but Triss cut him off.

"I'm not Greymantle!" She took a step forward, past the Priestess who slunk back to avoid their quarrel.

"You are his chosen successor." He reminded her admonishingly.

"His chosen successor." She was weary now, weary beyond belief and sick to the teeth of it all. For a
moment, she forgot herself. "And how long am I to pay the price for an old man's folly?"

The slap caught her hard, turning her face. She lifted her fingers to brush her cheek, anger bursting in her
like blossoming blood in dark waters, but it had withered and slunk away in shame moments later when she
lifted her shock-stricken gaze back to Shawn Keanan. To his credit, he looked mildly ashamed of himself.
To her credit, Triss knew she had deserved it.

She spared a moment to regard the Priestess closely, without fully appearing to do so. She was pretty in her
own way, with the folds of her hood concealing the elongated ears which betrayed the taint in her blood.
They had even been friends once, before Triss had marched with the Sons. But the company had changed
everything. Greymantle's tutelage had been hard on Triss; not physically demanding, but the changes he
had wrought in her had been as difficult as forcing water to flow uphill.

"Leave us." She commanded, and the Priestess bowed her head before retreating - probably gratefully - out
into the light.

"Triss-..." Shawn started, but a sharp breath and warning glance from the Captain silenced his attempt to
salvage the conversation.

"I will speak with Amarae." Her tone was cold, but her anger was reserved for herself. Her words
broached no argument as she strapped her longsword to her side. "One of her comrades has already
requested this of me. I will go now, and alone."

He sighed at that and took up her wickedly sharp dirk from it's place upon the war table, offering it over
resignedly. "You have had wiser ideas."

"Should I stay here and play the good little figurehead?" She drew up her cloak, fastening it by silver clasp
around her shoulders, shaking out it's gloomy folds. "I have no illusions as to my place here, Lieutenant.
Wherever Greymantle is, he is laughing."

"You don't believe that."

"No? What would you have me believe then?" She looked at him then, her skin reddening like dark grape
wine where he had hit her. "We marched for the Duke, under his banner for a cause that united us.
Greymantle snatched up the falling banner when Lordamere passed, and now I? How many hands can a
banner pass between before it is too torn to be recognised?"

She left before he had occasion to reply, leaving him to his silent worry. She threw the hood of her cloak
up to guard against the insistent winter's chill, striding out over desecrated soil in search of the horses.
Somewhere high above, a carrion bird shrieked and wheeled in the copper-coloured sky, a stark herald of
death.