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SUMMARY: Amalric Viamed is a young knight, cast off by his family as a second son. Gendarius Falen is the youngest Prince of Tyrien, a mighty kingdom of men. In the world of Andaroth, this pair of sons will find themselves entagled in the fate of their world

Chapter I
Disinherited

Amalric Viamed was bitter. Who would not be bitter? For Amalric was gripped with the realization that all his love for his father and his family, all his loyalty to their small fief, all the years of hard training as a squire. All of it would come to nothing. For Amalric was a second son, seen as worthless only by the virtue of being born after his brothers. Tradition was all-important in his country, the kingdom of Tyrien, and the tradition was for second sons to be cast-off, abandoned, given only what their families can spare and sent off to make their own destiny. He sighed at the brutal truth of it, his warm breath casting mist in the cold autumn air.

He was young man, of twenty winters, with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular build. Amalric's hair was a light brown, and his eyes a deep amber. His face was relatively plain and he was not distinguished by either exceptional beauty or ugliness. Many had noted that Amalric's nose was slightly crooked, due to training sergeants dealing him harsh blow after blow in his years as a squire. His hands were rough and calloused from hard work all through his life. On this day of disinheritance, he wore a brigandine jacket, with its small metal plates riveted onto a leather tunic, with a padded gambeson underneath, woolen trousers on his legs, and simple leather shoes covering his feet. A green cloak hung across his shoulders.

Amalric rode a bay gelding horse through his father's modest holdings. This fief was relatively poor, as it was in the far east of Tyrien, on the north side of the Barring Mountains, which got their name as they often acted as a first line of defense for the richer southern lands of Tyrien from barbarian incursions from the Wastelands to the north. His steed's hooves clattered against the cobblestones of the road upon which the horse walked into the small village upon which life in the small fief centered. In spring, the hamlet looked idyllic and beautiful. But now, in the grips of early autumn, the forests that surrounded the village were leafless, their dead forms casting long shadows. The grass was a brown, and most of the villagers stayed inside their small, squat brick houses. The village's name was Xanc, and it was situated in a small hollow, with a tall, stone keep overlooking it from a hill some distance off. Viamed Fortress, Amalric's home and his father's stronghold.

The squire sighed again, thinking about his coming abandonment, and gave his mount the spurs. The horse whinnied a little bit, and set off at a gradual canter through the small town, attracting the looks of various freemen and peasants throughout the town. He ignored them, and focused on guiding his horse up the road to his father's castle. It was a short ride; though the wind stung his bare skin, and he soon found himself in the courtyard beneath the towering keep of Viamed Fortress.
"My son, my son you have returned," said Arthas Viamed, exiting the main gate of the fortification.
"Greetings Father" Amalric replied, mustering the best smile he could under the circumstances of disinheritance.