. . .
THE GREAT BARITONE OF A MALE roused Lord Geralt Cranmer out of his rest. He jostled awake from his light slumbering with a curse, as his head had begun to throb not one moment later.
"Fucking Blue Cloaks!" His graty voice echoed into the opulent quietude of his lounge chamber. He lifted on his seat to set his eyes yonder, looking through the large window.
Though his eyesight was dwindling these days, he could make out the uneven circle of soldiers in the distance, approaching carefully on a figure that seemed to be crouched under one of the budding apple trees of the Moor. Lord Geralt sat up more on his scarlet divan, craning his neck and squinting his eyes to gain better vision. From his position on this high chamber of his Manor, the open window offered a clear view that cut straight across the White Lake and into the green fields beyond. He could see past the crystal waters from which the loch had gotten it's name to the prim orchards in the distance.
