Chapter 7: The Banners Three

	“Good day Lord Hans.” He says with a nod of his head, then he takes Freja’s paw and plants a formal kiss upon it. “And to the wolfess Freja.” He says turning up with a pleasant smile. Freja is finally getting a good look at the man, can see his features are slimmer than that of Hans, brown long hair down to his shoulders and no hair on his face, at all seemingly, his skin is lighter than Asen's but darker than Hans', his build is very long and thin, Roger towers over Asen and Hans, but is much thinner. In fact the body of Roger looks quite fragile to Freja's wolf-like expectations. Hans and Asen are not small men by any means, taller and broader than most of their peers, and both have visible scars on their arms and around their necks and face, Roger by contrast has no visible scars, hair like walnut and pale blue eyes, his features are very sharp, but despite his body being unbecoming of a warrior Freja can see war in his eyes, the same fire she had seen in Hans when he met her in the battlefield.

"Hello Roger, it has been three? Four years?" Hans remarks, his usual guard seemingly lessened.

Roger turns his head to look at Hans. "Three to be sure old friend, pardon if I'm distant, the Ventoans have been raiding my coast recently and I have yet to figure out a way of crushing their fleets. It has been costly, so my arrival here is threefold." He says cold and distant.

Hans and Asen nod. "Anything I can do to help my friend?" Asen asks with a glimmer in his eye.

"Yes actually, though that will have to be discussed in a more formal manner, along with what I wish to ask about the Teuts. What I'd like now is a stiff drink, and a chat among friends." He says the fire in his eyes dimming down.

Asen leads Hans, Freja, and Roger to one of the many empty tables under the tent, and beckons over one the clan's slaves. "Bring King Roger a Vjotkic Vodka, and a keg of my new beer with four mugs." He says authoritatively to the Horse-folk with a shaved mane.

 "A King, a Khagan, a Minstrel Knight, and Wolfess all sit down at a table, one can only wonder what they'll talk about." Hans says jokingly.

"A Minstrel Knight? Hans, you're a Commander and Noble, if anything it'd be a King, Khagan, Warlord, and Chieftain." Roger protests remembering his old friends' lack of personal affirmation.

Asen rubs his temples. "Makes two people who are thicker than mud at my table." He gripes. "Roger this is one of the rare "jokes" of Hans, he fancies himself a traveler and a merchant so claims Hoctchmiester Otto of the Commerce Guild, and I for one am inclined to believe him." Asen says, smiling.

Roger turns to Asen with a raised brow and smirk. "Ah yes, Otto, the most powerful banker in the world and he doesn't know it, I hear he's wed the only child of the current head of the guild and did so not knowing the move everyone thought he made." He says with a chuckle. "And you're telling me, Otto not only knows of Hans, but speaks of him?" Roger continues.

Hans turns to the raving Norman. "Otto and I were raised a door away from each other, we may as well be brothers, were it not for-" Hans catches himself, not uttering the name of the dead, not of his family. "Otto and I are very close and his family and ours have been working together for generations, the Woeda Clan did help found the guild after all, and I put almost every coin I made as a soldier and he ensures my money works for me, both in interest and in investments."

Roger and Asen turn to Hans, with a very serious look on their face. "Well I guess the mystery of how the Guild financed the whole Tactrian War is solved. By the swords, you've probably made your house wealthier than most kingdoms." Asen says, staring at the frailer looking Norseman.

"Wretched Serpents Hans, it seems I've been wasting my time with trying to find the nameless shareholder in every major trade company and the backing of every bond the guild issues. Turns out it was a friend the whole time. At least now it makes sense why the guild ensured us it was a "reputable" investor, given it was you. Alys would love to chat with you, that I can promise." Roger says, before downing his vodka in a single large gulp.

"Don't fucking tell me you married into the Shari Kingdom." Hans says before taking a hearty drink from his cup.

Freja takes a sniff of the air. "Shari? Are they a Sjeepa Tribe?" She asks. "I only ask because you smell like somewhat like a sheep herder and I know the Sjeepa have similar smell." Freja remarks.

Roger feigns pain. "A sheep herder, ouch. I would've preferred cattle rancher, but yes my dear wife is a Sjeepa in your tongue, a Shari, in Normae." He remarks.

Freja rolls her eyes. "Oh great, another human tongue I've got to learn." She snarks pointing at Hans.

"I promised to teach you to read human, not speak every dialect. If so I'd hate to try to teach you to understand Byzantii or Skalacta as it is spoken. Not to mention human isn't exclusively spoken by humans, you vulfan speak it, the Skalacs speak it, practically all the peoples this side of the barrier mountains and north of Haralos speak it. I'm not even sure the remaining elves speak elvish all the time." Hans remarks throwing his hands up in defense.

 “I’m not sure Elves can even speak in a normal sense.” Asen remarks. “But the far more pressing matter than dialects, than elves, or any of it, is that our drinks are getting warm and this beer isn’t cheap or always able to be bought, so if you would, drink.” he says jovially his glee not withheld by the softer tone, he then raises his cup to his mouth and takes an audible gulp of his beer.

	The table takes Asen’s advice and drinks. To Hans, he instantly recognizes the taste, it’s Venotoan Lambic, and a good one at that, spiced too, meaning Asen got himself a special order of it. Freja instantly notices the fruity taste of it, she can feel the cold liquid seem to cool her entire body down, her first though is how popular this drink would be with her kind, its fruity, it tastes almost like bread, and has spices, it’s like the Solstice Breads the Vulfan enjoy during winter feast days as a beer. Though of the beer drinker’s Asen is the most happy with his drink, he’s watching an old friend clearly enjoy the first mug of a new brew he had commissioned from the city Roger had conquered some time ago. Roger, being the black sheep of the four but tastes the beer, only a sip large enough to let the flavor cross his tongue and not a drop more.

	“You know Roger had I known I was going to bump into you I’dve brought you a horn and a barrel of mead.” Hans jests.

Roger turns to Hans. “Oh, please do sometime, while I love my dear Alys, dealing with the various clans of her kind, and trying to get them to become normal nobles has been a nightmare, if it weren’t for the forts that keep the Venotoans out, I’d be inclined to cut them loose as a duchy under vassalage or something of the sort. Alys should be joining us soon, but Dardot of Cormac has been trying to get his daughter some practice with the matter of gate openings, such spells are tiring on the body, especially on the youths.” Roger states.

“Wasn’t your wizard an old, old man? If I recall he was of Cormac as well, I’d be surprised he was still alive.” Hans asks.

“Oh yes, Colas of Cormac passed away last fall, his son took over, now he’s trying to get his daughter Avril to learn the family art. Speaking of Avril, does your brother have a betrothed yet?” Roger asks, doing a 180 on his tone when the matter of marriage is brought up.

“Not to my knowledge, but I’m sure a long standing wizarding house is something I and my mother would agree on for a second son’s hand.” Hans affirms, raising his mug to his mouth to take another drink.

Asen’s head swivels towards Hans. “Wait, you have a brother? How come you didn’t tell me?” Asen asks.

Freja too makes her mind known. “I’m sorry I thought you had a brother who died as an infant, I didn’t know you had any others.”

Hans slowly turns to look over Asen, Roger, and Freja. “My mother had yet to give birth to him before I left to join you, no point in counting chickens before they hatch, I have a sister too, but she is set to wed a Teut and already lives on their side of the Tolac. Since then my father’s sickness has gotten worse and she has yet to be with child again, though, with how wise my mother is getting I wouldn’t doubt if my sister was her last.” Hans answers, now taking a long drink from his cup.

Freja gives Hans a sarcastic look. “Oh, so your sister is in a far off land, like some faraway princess.” She says, teasing at Hans.

Hans looks to Freja. “Absolutely, but I’ve never met her.” He remarks with a grin. Freja just stares at him disapprovingly.

Roger, clearly annoyed with this newfound information. “How. delightful.” He says through a forced smile “You, I, Asen, Aq’Tury, and Vahan need to talk about matters of marriage in the future, particularly, you Hans.” Roger says, now raising his own cup to drink.

Asen turns to Roger and nods in agreement. “Hans, if you’d like I could provide you some maidens of my kingdom should none of the Norse be to your liking.” Asen jokes.

Roger starts to chuckle despite the vodka in mouth, nearly spitting it all over Freja. “Really Hans is now in need of maidens, I’ve hired plenty of Vulfan in my time, I guarantee you, Hans already has one. After all Hans was never a spearbreaker.” Roger remarks, regaining his composure.

“H-hey how’d you know that?” Freja protests, her ears flashing red.

Asen nods, takes a sip of his beer, and asks. “Good question, how do you know that? I’d like to know as well.”

Roger grins. “Firstly, look at her, she hasn’t a marital braid, something the wives of my mercenaries all had, secondly, she hasn’t a spear, something that is to never leave their people’s side in adulthood. So she’s a maiden.” Roger says very matter-of-factly

“Actually Roger, the spear thing is only for the Lowland Tribes, but I am impressed you knew all that. Other than that you are correct, though among the highland tribes women do not bear spears, and our right to adulthood is battle.” Freja says, her wolfen face showing a quite pleased wolfess.

Roger smirks and turns to Asen. “Told you Khagan, Hans found a maiden, he seems to have a strange knack for it.” He pokes.

Asen sighs. “You should’ve forced him to marry at the end of the Avin campaign.” He remarks.

“He was called away to the Norse Court, Remember? Something about a Keep falling to the wolves.” Roger remarks.

Hans chuckles. “About that, when I returned I became a victim of court politics, and they made me a man of the line my last 3 years in the army, can you believe that? I must say though, it was a much easier job than the role of the world’s most active minstrel knight and the hand of a De Facto king. Well, until I became a “candidate” for the royal guard, and that nearly killed me. Totally uncalled for!” Hans gripes through a smile.

Asen and Roger turn to face each other, and a tension in the air forms. “And you just accepted that kind of humiliation?” Roger says coldly.

Asen shakes his head. “I tend to forget just how bad you are at politics, but what is done, is done, your House probably remains unshaken and you seem to take it in stride. Then again you alway did focus more on monetary and military matters, as that is what was needed among the Banners Three.” Asen follows much the visible displeasure of Hans.

Roger takes another sip of his beer and leans back into his chair. “Ah yes, the Banners Three, though it’s really five these days isn’t it?.”

Feeling generally left out Freja decides to steer the conversation in her direction, feeling it best to take the pressure off Hans. “Banners Three? Is that some sort of treaty or agreement?” she asks.

Roger turns to her. “Agreement yes, officially a requisition of Hans for the duration of the Blackmane War after his time as a minstrel knight, though as it progressed it’s become more of a long standing conspiracy.” Roger states.

“I’ve just noticed that both you and Asen have taken wives of different races, and from what I’ve seen from Asen’s realm and what I can piece together from yours Roger, it seems to be an integrated kingdom between humans and non-humans. Is the Banners something to do with that, as the Norse fancied me a slave, but Hans seemed very against the idea.” Freja explains.

The three men of power nod. “Smart girl but can you figure out why?” Asen presses

Freja thinks for a moment. “I’d imagine, officially as you say, tax revenue and conquest, secondarily, from what I can tell from Asen’s aversion to Elves and my knowing of the legends about the wars between the humans and the elves, I imagine it’s a way to sap power from them, bringing the peoples who favor the elves to your side. Though that second bit I cannot say you’d say, and lastly, to divide your councils against each other, allowing you to have more effective rulers that are more disunited against your crown. I’ve noticed that Kingship, Khaganship, and such are all just chiefs of many clans.” Freja explains, showing her wit before two kings and someone somewhere between a lover and a friend.

“Correct on the counts of Asen and I, but what about Hans? He hasn’t a crown but rather a  set of fractured holdings that equate to a kingdom in wealth and power, what does he benefit?” Roger presses.

Freja thinks for a moment more. “To make his land more valuable, the Norse and the Vulfan have been at it since the Giantsfall, our tribes have always warred no matter what name we call them, but given how war weary Hans is now, I assume he seeks to end any sort of conflict in his lands, and attract local peoples to live in it, and since he hasn’t a crown, other lesser chiefs are far more likely to follow his methods to increase their own lands in value.” Freja assets.

Asen seems shocked. “I’d always thought it was because he wanted to pay less in garrison fees and stop paying for new mills because of local ethnic disputes getting violent. All because he doesn’t hold any particular malice toward the other races, I thought he always saw them as equal subjects, nothing more.” He states.

“True, but when I heard Otto griping about how it was hurting trade in a Naxitoli port, I figured it was another way of attracting trade and the tax associated with it, given my house’s long standing partnership with them.” Hans shrugs. “Though it would seem Freja has the makings of a far more apt politician than myself, she’d served her tribe well but now they’re gone.” Hans remarks patting Freja on the back almost cheery.

“Why thank you Hans for reminding me of the painful memory of my tribe’s extinction, should we move onto the fact that you have neither never mentioned the name of your late betrothed or seem to be adverse to the touch of women?” Freja snarls at Hans from behind a teeth barred smile.

	Hans just stares at the table, wishing he was covered head-to-toe in steel plates. Roger just stares disapprovingly at him, not at all unexpected, but still something Roger had wanted to see improve. Asen hides either his smile or embarrassment behind a wooden mug. Freja, just glares at him, from across the table. Wishing for something, anything, to break this newfound silence, Hans mind begins to race, wondering why he chose such poor words.

	A deeply unsettling silence sets in, the kind that Freja knew to mark the coming of death, the same kind Hans knows to drive soldiers mad. Roger finally takes more than mere sips of his drink, whereas Asen just seems lost in some horrible state of thought. There seems to be a quiet comradery between the two Kings and Freja, a silent agreement with her anger towards him. Even in the silence, Freja can sense that Hans has always made such slips of the tongue, and that they had been far more deep cutting than this one.

	From afar, the four look like the sole survivors of a terrible battle, grieving the loss of their brothers, comrades, and allies. Where once the four would’ve seemed like the last group of travelers at an inn, now they sit as silent as the hundred or so other tables. The dim light of the sun breaching the worn cloth of the tent lends an almost tragic lighting to the scene. The only noise is that of the depressed slaves milling about, setting out empty mugs and near-stale bread bowls at every table.

	The silence drags on for an inordinate amount of time, or at least Hans thinks it does. Behind a blank face his mind is whirring, wondering how he’d let his tongue slip. He’d been so good about it these past few years. He lets out a long deep sign, and raises his cup to drink. He doesn’t savor the flavor, he doesn’t do any of his usual habits when drinking, he simply drinks as if it were no different than water. His movements are stiff, unnatural and almost like if something was trying to mimic the movements of a human. His mind races, pondering his sins, how many people had he killed? For all of his failings, he still thinks himself worthy of life, but unworthy of leadership. Then there’s the people around him, well meaning as they are, are just like him, so able to throw men’s lives like kindling into a fire. His mind bears him down, he was so glad when the King relinquished him of command, it was like shackles being broken, but then he began to see the failings of other leaders, needlessly throwing men away. It doesn’t matter anymore to Hans, those sins are not his, much like the positions. Hans is reminded of his mountain of guilt, stacking yet another pebble atop it, but the slow burn of embarrassment is a far more stinging feeling.

	Freja is cold with anger, her movements are quick and agitated as she fiddles with her hands at the table. Her tribe, for all it was, was living on borrowed time, she knew it too, but it was her’s. She knew Gaerth was the only thing keeping the tribe together too but Hans killed Gaerth, she watched him do it, and Aegir, who was supposed to replace Gaerth as chief, vanished. Her mind goes to the curse of jaw rot, and how if maybe there hadn’t been a bout of it in her litter, the Buckhunters would be stronger than the Keeptakers or the Black Eye, the many chances her tribe had to rise always seemed to slip through the fur of their clawed fingers, either by foolish mistakes or just fate, but Hans is not to mock it, that she knows for certain. Freja could only wonder if anyone could’ve saved the tribe the day after the battle, the day Hans killed Gaerth and the tribe with him. But no matter how doomed it was, Hans shouldn’t have joked about it, that wound is still too fresh. Freja weighs her options, she could try to make it on her own but outside but that means either living in, or passing through several human ruled realms, risky to be sure, and then the Felidae are not keen on taking in outsiders, which leaves returning to the Vulfan lands, which isn’t going to happen. Freja’s anger turns into embitterment knowing that Hans has unknowingly bound her to him.

	The two rulers are the only of the four that notice the green sparks that begin to grow concentrically out from a seemingly random point, a black-green disk seems to grow with the ring of sparks, with shifting glowing white dots. It reaches what one could assume is its maximum. Out from the green, clearly magical disk, steps a long leg with a distinct cloven clop, a short black fur going up to the knee where it meets with a white sheared wool. Following the lone leg steps the rest of the fierce Sheepen Clanswoman, her amber eyes looking over the room with her horizontally eyes. For a woman of such class and power she’s remarkably unrefined in appearance, lacking the most basic of modesty that even the horsen harem of Asen’s viel and silk clad women.  Her dress is that of only a blue leather leotard, her legs and arms bare in totality, her face is black contrasting strongly against the white wool surrounding it, and though not seen to the table, her small tail is free of the leotard, free to wriggle as she’s fit. On her hip is a small shield, known to the humans as a buckler, and beneath that is a long wooden shaft ending in an ornately etched bronze head. Despite her fiecesome exterior her annoyed face widens to a grin when she sees Roger and Asen. Her voice is motherly despite her hips clearly having never been with a child. “Asen my friend, and my love, how are you?” she asks cheerily. Should one get a good view about her, she’d stand somewhat short, even among her kind, but well built, and nicely shaped.

Roger rises from his seat and rushes to embrace the strange sheep of whom is surely an adventurer or mercenary of some sort. “Oh Alys, I take it Dardot wound up having to make the gate?” He chimes, lifting his short wife up off the floor and rubbing his face into hers.

A somewhat tall Deer man steps out from the gate along with a small, clearly young, doe. “Do pardon m’lord this here faun can’t get her elements aligned, making trailblazin’ through the Faerk quite a problem.” He grips, a heavy accent making his voice almost sound like the native tongue of the Dyier peoples. Neither of them leave much of their bodies to be seen. Dardot stands in a fine red cloak with red and yellow embroidery, the usual silver jewelry of a magi, while Avril wears clothes becoming of a usual court mage rather than the staunch Dyier traditionalism of her father, she’s dressed in a long blue dress with copper buttons at the cuffs and breast, though neither wear any sort of footwear, barring an ankle bracelet Avril may or may not have on.

	“It's not an issue Dardot, just make sure when our generation passes Avril can be wizard to my own children, regardless, I’d like if you could keep that gate open, I’d like to share a game with fellow men of power, yourself included.” Roger asks of the wizard before clutching his wife tighter. “As you for Alys, would you and Kemaslan take the wolfess next to Hans of Woeda and Avril, while I could stay in your embrace forever I think it's best for you ladies to get to know each other.” Roger says.

	Freja turns to see the couple, she’s never seen Asen and Kemaslan be physical over the three days she’s been here, but watching Roger and Alys brings about a ping of longing for something she’d never had or even seen among the Vulfan. She quickly pushes away those feelings, taking a look at the couple. Alys’s embrace has pushed back Roger’s tunic’s sleeves revealing arms that look to be more scars than skin. She watches almost enviously as they share a deep kiss. “So how did you come to marry a Shari?” She asks quietly, not really directly at Roger, but her whimper-like question is either not heard, understood, or simply or ignored.

Alys approaches the wolfess, her distant demeanor returning giving Freja a good look over, the horizontal pupils resting in iris gives Freja a chill, for whatever reason it conjures images of the goat-folk of legends. Despite this, even Freja, the shortest at the table, dwarfs the sheep woman. “Hmm. You look lost girl, but I’m sure that can be sorted out.” She remarks, somewhere between motherly and distant.” Alys remarks, looking down at the sitting wolfess. “Come, you’ll find an afternoon with Avril, Kem, and myself more interesting than watching the manfolk play their table game.” She says extending a hand to Freja.

Freja reluctantly takes the sheep-woman’s hand, feeling the smooth, hoof-like fingertips hard against her soft paw pads. “Well, what have you in mind?” Freja asks. “I’d quite like to do some archery or perhaps spear throwing. Just a taste of the past is what I’d like most.” Freja requests.

Alys looks up to the wolfess. “You know, that sounds splendid, even wizards ought to learn to fight without magic, should magic fail, and Kem has always been a crack shot with the shot bows of the steppe. It should be fun for all of us.” she concurs. “Now, let us find Kem, I’m sure will provide you with shooting clothes.” She says, smiling Freja taking her hand, and leading her out of the tent.