His Imperial Highness Royal Elmstir, prince of Morrenstir, duke of Nelmar, count of Blackwood, firstborne of His Most Estimable Majesty Late King Osiris (Gods rest him), pinched the bridge of his nose as as he reviewed last month's report from the merchant's guild. The numbers didn't add up, but he wouldn't be able to identify what was wrong while he remained impatiently waiting for a courier response. His captain of the guard, Soryll had gone with a small retinue to check the border where Morrenstir met the wilds- per his request. Royal had known that something was amiss when he was ripped out of a deep sleep the night before. He had felt like a spider who's web a rock had been thrown into as all of his senses had screamed that an intruder was present. It was someone who's entire being didn't align with the fabric of reality, and he felt their movements like disconcerting ripples. The portal had to have been activated, though he knew that two of his most trusted guarded it from the other side. It was an assumption, but for this to be true something had to have gone terribly wrong, and he himself felt quite worthless for not investigating personally. Would he sense their deaths—he wondered, after so much time had passed?
At any rate, Royal could've completed a patrol by himself and returned back to the palace twice over by now. He made a mental note to challenge the worthless captain to a box-fight when he returned. They were usually to the death, but Royal would be content with just breaking some bones... He took a breath and tidied the reims of paper strewn across the table. Just thinking about giving Soryll a thrashing was enough to calm his heartbeat a little, so he reapplied himself to the task at hand. Book-keeping was a large part of his duty as the unofficial king, and if left to the Council, one could be certain that the group would leave with stuffed pockets and a merchant's guild to foot the bill.
He had focused for all of three minutes when the door exploded open and a breathless courier trotted in.
"Speak." Royal demanded, though the boy before him was clearly struggling with air intake.
"General" *huff* "Allyce" *huff huff*...
General Allyce. Given that Royal's thoughts had been centered on Captain Soryll all morning, this name took Royal by complete surprise.
"...Sends report of two missing vessels!" the courier finally pushed out. "Northern Fleet!".
The words sunk in slowly... Two vessels was nearly thirty men.
"How in the Wyrm did we lose two ships?! Never mind, get out! ASTOR!!!"
A grumbly old elf (which for their species was actually still quite handsome and spry) entered the room in the wake of the terrified messenger. His silvered hair gleamed in the morning light and he looked down the length of his long nose unperturbed by his master's antics. "Your highness."
"Have one of our swiftest crewed and packed with rations immediately." He ordered coldly.
"A ship, your highness?"
Wry humor was met with an icy stare. "Go." His voice was faint as a whisper which usually meant death for the listener. Astor turned on his heel and hastily left the room, clicking the door shut behind him. With a groan Royal stretched his long legs and rose from the table. It had been much longer than he had realized and his joints were stiff from being seated for so long. He trudged to his attached sleeping chamber and selected an assortment of the type of apparel he hadn't needed in several decades: light chain mail, leather riding breeches, simple white tunic, boots, and a smattering of leather armor to strap it all in place. The layers were quite sweltering after spending so long in silk, even though there was usually an array of concealed blades beneath his fancy court-wear. Warrior gear just had an oddly comforting heft to it that Royal hadn't realized he was missing.
A half hour later, he was greeted with cautious cheers at the dock. His soldiers had missed this side of their leader, but they knew well enough to be wary of the one who had led them into battle during the darkest of days and had held the frontline with nothing but an antique shield and an axe. The cursed ones had borne down on them in waves and he had exhibited the ruthless determination that had earned him the crown. It was his by birthright of course, but would certainly have been contested by the Council in the absence of his father Osiris, had he not sent such a clear statement regarding resistance.