Lundekinde felt a knot contracting tighter in his stomach. Even with the spring beginning to bloom and the colors of Oberon intensifying, Lunde couldn’t remove this malaise. Arriving only a month ago, the entirety of this kingdom felt almost nostalgic. Memories staggered in his mind, flashing as he ascended to the King’s Banquet Hall. His father told him much of Oberon and Nasir’s family. Joining it was a natural compellation.
His brow dripped with light dew; pearls of sweat also collected on his temples. Speaking, he felt acquainted with; in Burgundian. He gave little hope to the recently bride rumored—from what little he had caught on the winds—from France, being taught French at a young age for ‘legal’ reasons. With only being an entitled Count, how could he anticipate to be addressed by royalty?
Nasir delegated deftly—the entire caravan couldn’t live in the mediocre shop that served as their mercantile quarters. Therefore, the obligation passed down to Lund, or pressed onto, more like it; given the obvious biological right that he bore over the others of the caravan. He was going to attempt to convince some official of The Kingdom of Oberon to sell land for a well-sized house, which he would fund through burgundian imperial prosperity. Words spoken by Nasir wove cleverly together and wound around Lund’s untrained ear, who himself was learning the language progressively.
Lund’s mouth kissed the carved horn duct of his plump wineskin as he clutched and squeezed it. The honeyed ichor cascaded into his mouth, fuming spicy cologne through his passages and soothing his turbulent head, numbing the trembling of his hands and the apprehension that coursed through him time and time again.
Preparing to represent Burgundy, the warrior displayed a façade of the Burgundian Colors proudly. He entered the King’s Banquet Hall with no time for hesitation. Hopefully, he could find someone to ‘plead’ with, in dignity.
