Will swallowed thickly, his hands clutching Tugs mane. The wind had blown for hours, his eyes dry and his mouth drier. And yet he would not allow himself to reach for the water skin hanging from the saddle. He would not show weakness, though truly it was no real weakness at all. Again he glanced around the company following a heather littered trail. It was beginning to thin out, the foliage, the road becoming more and more worn. They were approaching their destination. Beside him King Duncan shifted in the saddle, a question sprang to Wills lips of his health was there anything the King desired? But a small headshake from his sovereign silenced him. Duncan smiled to show no offence or ire. He could understand, a little. Alyss reached out a gentle hand and patted his shoulder, from where she sat high above him on a grey mare.

Usually the young Ranger would have no compunctions with negotiating peace, but the Scotti were a different matter. Especially as his King, Sean and Arald had chosen to come to over-look and sign the treaty. Arald rode behind and a little removed, he also looking about warily for he had been involved with more than one battle with the tribesmen. Sean would arrive on the forth day, sailing from Hibernia. Nigel had left, last year, along with George. They, along with the Scotti Scribes had re-writen the document, editing to suit the new eras needs, having it been written about twenty odd years ago. Never signed. Yet still Will felt as if they were walking the wire, the lions den before them. Surely it was because of his earlier battle with such warriors. The gleam of a blade dully lit in the dim lights sickly glow, ready, waiting to rip his life away. He shook his head, if only to clear it.

The road was marked now, at the edges with small stones. Having seen how quickly mist and fog consumed the land, he assumed this would be a precaution to keep travellers on the road. Still he fingered the hilt of his Saxe. Pauline rode beside the Scotti General sent to "collect," them. It was a show of trust, Halt rode beside her, seperating her from the tribesman. Though, he shouldn't have worried, for all that the Scotti were fierce warriors, they would never harm a woman. Particularly blonde beauties. Despite himself, the Scotti warrior found her intriguing, she did not scorn him or his people. She did not think herself above him, she was intelligent, and so was he. All it had taken was one look, and both knew that the other was smart. Halt had growled, and the high-ranking officer had actually laughed.

"Do not worry, i shall not steal her."

Will felt a smile tug at his lips. Yes, he liked the general, he was good and honorable, almost kind. And indeed he was not the one who had tried to take Wills life. But the other, a Captain of sorts he did not. He scorned the woman, wondering at the King for placing them in such power. He laughed at Halt, though soon learned not to. He though himself above most in the camp, yet he did not dare question the high-ranking Scotti. General Rheon. That was his name. One night, the tall well-tanned, dark haired man had joined their small circle about a camp fire. At Duncans insistence. They exchanged stories, talked politics, steering clear of the subject of the old treaty. Tall and sinewy he was the picture of grace, and elegance. He was obviously well-raised and well-educated.

"I went to Gallica, for awhile when i was younger, my mother wished me to learn of the world. So, i went. Siberia perhaps, would be where i was to live, if the Scotti should fall. I am half-siberian, making me a dubious choice for one of Rorys generals!"

At that he had laughed, if it were some great joke. He stopped, upon seeing their somewhat confused and estranged faces.

"I am sorry, family joke. You see, the Scotti are ridiculously centered on themselves, they do not see the world as a possible ally, only thieves attempting to steal what they have.

Though i must say, we have little in the way to offer the world!"

He seemd amused at their suprise.

"I have been taught about such things, by a Lord in Gallica. His name was Sir Jonathin, later to be Lord. A scholar, a powerful one. Though it pains me that he should be so little heard."

Standing he bowed.

"Forgive me, i have spoken what the King perhaps wishes to tell you himself? Maybe, he is old and growing weak. I beg of you, be easy on him. He has had but two goals in his life time... To preserve his land and bear children to continue its growth. It was instilled upon him, a close-minded way of thinking. Do not blame him for his ignorance, he has been a good king."

At that he left, he said nothing more on the next day, if anything being a little distant...