•Two Hundred Miles West of Isonfordge•
In silence, Azrael followed closely behind Pandroxian, saying little throughout the day's journey toward the village. Having given his trust over to the Ranger, The King of Gidrivar submitted himself to obedience, humbling himself to his escort's instinct. For every mile Azrael put beneath his feet, Pandroxian more than doubled. Time and again, the man insisted on a halt, covering their back trail or scouting ahead, the soles of his soft leather boots never making a sound. During these routine patrols, Azrael took time to admire the beauty of his country, taking in the scent of the forest’s red cedar and pine. These vast Coniferous Forests were the source of Gidrivar's wealth. For time long remembered, his Kingdom held dominion over the forest's, a charge left to them by Sielle, Mother of his people. Gidrivar had taken the task with honor, and tended the great woods with care, harvesting the trees only when they had matured in cycle. Time came and went, eventually bringing forward the trade agreement with northern Xegilar, a nation who despite their mountainous terrain, were skilled craftsmen, and the workforce behind Gidrivar's Armada. All too aware of where his thoughts were leading him, the dirt faced King rubbed a grimy hand across his chin and hardened his eyes. He had marched his army for a reason. It had nothing to do with Xegilar, or their frail ruler. No. He was making a point. The corruption of the High Priest Gilus was completely unacceptable, and the words of Rhontan had proven true. Valderak was nothing but a self serving bastard, abusing his power as the War Council's Eldest at every turn.
No. This war was his statement that he would not be backed into a corner.
But here he was, dressed in sackcloth, on the run from his own kingdom.
Choking back tears of frustration, Pandroxian's hand on his shoulder pulled him from the dark recesses of his mind. Watching the Ranger flash his fingers forward, he gave a quick nod and they resumed their forced march.