For You (manxman)

Cursive

Roman surveys the houses of straws and wood or what remains of them. The smell of ember still lingers, a recent occurrence.

He strides from home to home, looking for any living soul. But only ashes remain. They had thought that a forest fire started but upon inspection now a small community was set up here, and didn't end up well as it should.

"What do you think happened here?" Gared walks up to him, looking weary.

"Small faction of stragglers lived here, that much I can say, but I don't know what caused the fire. Have the hounds found any trail?"

"Nothing. The dogs have been running around in circles."

"This might as well be an accidental fire by the dwellers or caused on purpose." He rubs the space between his eyes, and sighs, "We'll simply write any possible source of this incident."

"If refugees enter our town that may be involved here?"

"Offer them food and shelter them, make sure to write a list of who they are and what they brought with them. If they wish to stay, we'll offer them a job that suits their talents and find them a permanent place to stay within our walls."

Gared raises an eyebrow, "Empathic all of a sudden."

Roman grimaces, "I need more craftsmen and people to man the new lumber mill, that's all."

Gared snickers behind his hand but Roman pays it no mind as he saddles up, "Before I rode here this morning," he coughs, and looks away hiding the red tint on his cheeks, "Did a raven come with a message?"

His suspicions were right. The baron is in his thoughts.

"I doubt it." Gared clears his throat, "Winter is upon us. Every person right now is gathering food and more money for the harsh weather to come."

It is no secret that Baron Fitzgerald and Roman have been writing letters to one another. The days where Roman receives a letter, he's often kind and amiable to requests. On the days he hasn't receive any, he's irritable and unreasonable as always, which is normal.

Roman grunts, and pulls the reigns of his horse without another word.

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"Still dancing like a woman?"

Quentin's startled but held his form steady, "It helps keep my body in shape." He keeps his body straight and turns.

There stands his young brother, Devin, sword strapped on his hips, arms crossed sporting silver gauntlets, and boots smudged with so much mud that he could see the brown footprints dirtying the floor on his room.