After trial and error, you're more than strong enough to hug the large trunk to your chest and make your way up without breaking a sweat. "A slow start, beast, but we got there," you say to Brute at the top of the stairs as it gallops ahead of you. [+Surety] You throw yourself on the cot at last, trunk safely installed at the foot of the bed. A moment's repose, you think, before—
"Is this the chamber of Bandochel?"
"Fool to Her Majesty the Queen?"
Brute chitters and waves as a pair of well-coiffed heralds peer into your room. You swing your legs off the cot and try to muster up the energy to stand. "Indeed, gentles, 'tis I…."
"Thou'rt summoned by His Majesty the King."
You blink. "Then I suppose I'm to follow you, aren't I?"
"T'would be preferred, yes."
You exchange a few words with Brute and agree on a polite fiction together that the beast is to stay in your chambers without causing mischief. The heralds exude impatience through their professional stoicism. You try to liven the mood with a quip or two whilst you walk, but they seem unreceptive.
You suppose you'll learn soon if King Saul is fit to be a kindlier audience…. The throne room has considerably more shine to it than the last time you visited it. A small battalion of well-coiffed menials are buffing the stone floors and hanging bright tapestries just so on the sober walls. Cooks and junior stewards are hovering above the long banquet tables in deep conversation about cutlery and which shape of finger bowls to set out. There must be quite the gala on the way.
You wend your way through the swirl of activity to the dais where Brenton's leaders await.
Onward