Prince Jason Algrave sat back in the comfortable, high-backed leather chair in his father's war room. His bright blue eyes drifted slowly over the massive table that dominated the center of the dark, stone room. The table itself was covered by a map centered on the far-reaching borders of Gandora. One could see how the banners of the kingdom extended far and wide, including the Bonecoast to the west, and even the arid deserts to the south, home of the cunning Sandlords. To the northwest were scraggly illustrations of dusky and imposing mountains, the Ramblade Peaks, where an aged and ringed hand was pulling wooden carvings of skulls off the table - the one-time representation of Jason Algrave's vanquished foes.
"Excellent work, my son." the man standing across the spacious table said as he picked up the last wooden skull from the table, before depositing it in a small chest held by a stone-faced servant. "Having annexed the Mountain Princes, our borders are that much more secure. I don't need to tell you how invaluable that is."
Jason wasn't listening. Instead, his ice-gaze burrowed into the illustrations of the Ramblades, his thoughts drifting to memories of a past battle. He recalled the din of steel on steel, whirling blades spinning around him like a hurricane as he made his way up the narrow causeways. A slice, a parry, a sweatdrop running down his cheek from beneath his ornate warhelm. He'd bark orders and take jabs at his fur-clad foes, driving his massive greatsword through pockets of enemies, cutting his way to a mountain fortress. Somewhere by his side, Sir Derrick Pelgair would give him a report of the flank, before jumping and cleaving with his spear and making his way into the throng of armored men once more. His heart ached every time he saw his friend leave his side, knowing that the next time that he saw him, he might be a corpse.
Thankfully, Derrick Pelgair had lived. But Adam Mullenax had not.
Jason considered Derrick Pelgair and the Mullenax brothers to be his closest companions, and a private goal of his during the campaign against the Mountain Princes was to get all of his friends out alive. He nearly succeeded in doing that.
Adam was the youngest of the three Mullenax knights that Jason Algrave set out with, and the only one to meet his end in the Ramblades. He remembered dashing with the youth across the drawbridge of Andruk castle, only to see him ran through by a massive soldier, a champion of the Ramblades. Adam's mouth gaped, feeling the steel give way to blood within him, and fell to his knees. His hands trembled, and pressed frantically against his wound as he made an inhuman-sounding cry for help. But it'd been too late. Jason avenged young Adam moments after the young knight met his end, but the damage had been done to Jason's soul.
Since then, Jason had hardened. As a leader, one cannot focus on individuals, on personal ties. To accomplish his goals as a monarch, Jason thought, he had to steel himself. Night after night did Jason, Derrick, Bowen, and Matthias sip wine and weep for their fallen friend. The grief was wrenching. It felt as though Prince Jason had been chewed up and spit out by the Ramblades themselves. Despite his victory, and despite how it appeared to the court, Jason felt only emptiness after Adam's death. Never again would Jason allow himself to become so vulnerable.
"Jason!"
The prince's handsome face shot upward, meeting the eyes of his father. King Trevaythan Algrave was a shorter man, but handsome, with a mess of great grey curly hair, carved whiskers, and an imposing set of blue eyes. "You're not listening." the monarch said in a grave voice. Trevaythan wore a fine set of jet-black robes and had his hands clasped in front of him. Despite his slight stature, the man was utterly confident.
"Apologies, father. My mind was elsewhere." Jason said politely. The prince was dressed comfortably and his frame dominated the space of the large dark velvet chair in which he sat. The grey, short sleeved tunic he wore fit tightly against his skin, the fabric of the sleeves shrinking slightly up his arm as his muscles flexed when he moved. Tightly fit, jet-black riding pants sat snugly on his lower body, belying the rolling muscles of his thighs and calves before giving way to high, dark boots.
"Clearly." the king said. His voice was wizened and waxy. The torchlight of the war hall danced across his father's face. His gaze softened, and he dropped his head as he took a seat himself. "You did well here." he said, nodding to the table.
