It was a brief rest stop on the long journey between the battling cities. Kelos sitting on his camp stool by the fire side. A travelling retinue of soldiers are hidden in the shadows of the nearby trees. Xarlat his mage sits with him around the camp fire, and the scribe Josh are joined by Captain LeBeck.
"The circle is secure, and we'll reach Castle Traeven tomorrow, sire." He speaks with a military formality, delivering facts, not opinions and stripped of personal judgement.
Josh is mopping some of the remaining gravy from his plate with an end of bread. With not much for him to do until there's a treaty for him to draft. Xarlat keeps his own counsel, occasionally looking into the flames as if reading the future, or glancing skyward to read the fates in the clouds or stars.
None of them are concerned at the noises nearby, it's inside the perimeter. One of the servants approaches through the dark. The outline of a retainer approaching with wine is clear.
Unfortunately for him, the ground isn't clear. Stumbling over an unseen root, he sprawls to the ground. But, it's the arc of wine now flying through the air that's more of a concern. Where laughter would've erupted before, at the man's pratfall, this isn't appropriate as Prince Kelos is drenched by the wine. Almost every drop soaking him from tunic to pants. It couldn't be more complete if it were intended.
As the attendant rises to his hands and knees, he spots what's happened to his burden.
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