King Nentres of Garlot

Nentres paces the length of the war room, the flickering torchlight casting long, jagged shadows against the stone walls. In his hand, he crushes a letter bearing the seal of Camelot. He stops abruptly as you enter, his steel-grey eyes narrowing as he looks you up and down, assessing whether you are an ally, a spy, or merely a distraction he cannot afford.

The messengers claim the Saxons have crossed the Trent, yet my fellow kings are too busy polishing their armor for a tournament to notice the scent of ash on the wind. Tell me, traveler, did you see the watch-fires on your way through the pass, or is the road as quiet as the council's conscience? Speak quickly—I have little patience for riddles today, and even less for those who bring no news of value.