As the early morning light graced Baron Targas's castle, Gwynnis made his appearance, just as the last of the rain ceased. He endeavored to keep up appearances, to not be looked down upon, but his efforts were belied by his sleep-deprived, haggard face and clothes drenched from the night's rain, leaving him looking more like a bedraggled stray dog than anything respectable.
His saddlebag was a testament to his current state: protruding from it were the handles of several iron swords and daggers, the bag itself bulging with small valuables, giving him the appearance of a wandering vagabond. These items, his spoils from the Murder Inn, were his last resort; if he couldn't claim his inheritance, these would be all he had left – not a single item could be spared.
"Who approaches?"
This challenge rang out from the castle's tower as Gwynnis approached the drawbridge. Reaching into his coat, he produced a carefully preserved letter and the Wintaling family crest. Drawing a deep breath, he announced robustly, "I am Gwynnis Wintaling, returning at the call of my father!"
The soldiers' expressions were obscured from his view, over ten meters away, but shortly after his declaration, the drawbridge creaked downward. Crossing the weathered wooden bridge, Gwynnis entered the castle's inner courtyard, a space that starkly contrasted with his memories. The castle, smaller and less grand than he had imagined, lacked the majesty of the vast European castles of film lore, presenting a somewhat forlorn sight.
Perched on a modest hillock with gentle slopes all around, the castle's strategic importance seemed minimal. The surrounding moat, now devoid of water, was a mere shadow of its intended purpose, hindered by the landscape's inability to support a water-filled defense.
Strictly speaking, it resembled more of a trench than a moat – shallow and narrow, barely two meters across and just about a meter deep, as Gwynnis noted while crossing the bridge.
The castle itself wasn't a singular structure but a collection of walls, towers, and a main keep, sprawling over approximately 3,500 square meters. The main keep, essentially a two-storied stone longhouse with a slanted wooden roof and a half attic, was the core around which the castle was structured. Four towers, each rising about eight meters high, were connected by walls five meters high and a meter wide.
Beyond this, the castle boasted stables, a blacksmith workshop, a kitchen longhouse, and a warehouse, with a well situated centrally in the courtyard. The courtyard itself was devoid of any stone flooring, merely a leveled ground, suggesting a dusty atmosphere when dry and a muddy mess during rains.
The majority of the remaining guards were clad in the cheapest of gambesons, made of layers of cloth or linen, some coated with wax for slight water resistance. To enhance protection, leather patches were sewn at vital spots like the neck and joints, but overall, the armor was barely better than none, reflecting the castle's impoverished state.
Standing among these men, Gwynnis realized that his own leather armor was actually quite decent in comparison. As for their weapons, there was more uniformity; most carried long spears, and some had iron swords hanging at their waists.
Observing this, Gwynnis began to seriously doubt the combat effectiveness of these guards. Did they even train regularly? Were they proficient with the bow and arrow? Could they form spear or shield walls in battle?
Glancing at the stables, he noted their small size, housing only seven or eight horses, probably just enough for message delivery and transportation. The idea of assembling an imposing cavalry force from this was laughably unrealistic.
Although Gwynnis's inheritance of the family estate was not yet assured, he was already feeling a sense of anger brewing within him. Transferred to a medieval plane he knew nothing about, he was fortunate to start as a noble heir, but what kind of force was he supposed to lead? How could he ascend with such resources?
Doubt gnawed at Gwynnis's heart as he observed the two guards beside him, who stood foolishly without any further action, causing him some impatience.
"What are we waiting for?"
"We are waiting for the steward, my lord."
Gwynnis was about to inquire further when he suddenly felt a blatant, unabashed murderous gaze fixed on him. He discreetly scanned his surroundings.
Everyone seemed busy with their own tasks. The stable boy was feeding horses, a maid fetched water at the well, laborers moved items, and the guards on the tower chatted occasionally glancing his way; sounds of hammering echoed from the blacksmith workshop, and smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.
Gwynnis's gaze shifted to the main keep, scanning each window, but he couldn't pinpoint the source of the malicious intent. Soon, the feeling vanished. Just as he wondered if he was being overly suspicious, a guard interrupted his thoughts.
"Uh... erm... the steward has arrived, my lord."
The guard hesitantly addressed Gwynnis as 'my lord,' then stepped aside. An elderly man, in his fifties, approached briskly.
"Gwynnis, my lord, you've finally returned!" the old man exclaimed warmly, shaking his hand. "I am Baldwin, honored to serve as the steward here by your father's grace. You might not remember me, but I watched you grow up..."
As Baldwin reminisced warmly, Gwynnis recalled such a person from his memories, who had been the steward even before he left home. Baldwin's father had also served as the castle's steward, the position passing down through generations, much like the barony itself.
"Gwynnis, my lord, please come with me to see the Baron. Your father will be overjoyed to know you've returned."
"How is my father? And my brother, what about him? Will he return?"
As they ascended to the second floor of the main keep, Gwynnis asked. Years ago, his elder brother, the Baron's heir, had a fierce argument with their father for unknown reasons, leading to a severed father-son relationship and his brother's departure to wander alone.
Much had happened since their mother's death, their father's remarriage, and the birth of twin half-siblings.
Baldwin fell silent for a moment before solemnly saying, "Your brother, Reynard Wintaling, passed away. It was an accident, two years ago."
They halted in front of the Baron's bedroom door on the second floor.
"As for the Baron, he..."
Baldwin knocked and, hearing a female voice say "come in," pushed open the door.
They entered a dimly lit room. Gwynnis's father, Gwint Wintaling, lay on the bed, his figure emaciated. A distinct odor permeated the room, the smell of long illness.
On a chair beside the sickbed sat a well-dressed young woman, strikingly beautiful. She held the Baron's thin hand, smiling warmly at the newcomers.
"Gwynnis, my child, you've returned."