You sigh and leave your room behind. A beautiful clear-skied day is upon you, so after a smackerel of breakfast, you relocate to the parade grounds to do some conditioning and contemplation.
You want to be ready for anything that'll suit the moment during the Royal feast.
You're a bit surprised when a herald comes up to you and beckons you to follow. "I'm a bit in the middle of something, sirrah," you say.
"If you please," says the herald, brooking no dissent.
Stifling annoyance, you and Brute follow along to a storage room at the back of the barracks, where a heavyset figure is staring at cracks in the masonry with a critical eye.
He looks up when you approach and gives you a tight smile. "Bandochel," Lord Bisqueath says, brushing the dust off his gloves. "And friend," he appends, noting your simian familiar.
Onward