The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass. What was once, will be, and now is again.
Cael Malthasar, First Prince of the Kingdom of Malthus, shifted slightly and gathered his fur-lined cloak against the cold. Mist formed with each exhalation of breath, dissipating quickly into the air, from both men and horses alike. The sun shone only half its own height above the horizon, the sky to the west still a deep purple, resisting the coming day. The traveling party numbered fifty strong, fighting men all. Cael himself struck an impressive figure atop his warhorse, his shoulder-length black hair tousled by the intermittent breeze. He was dressed for war, despite the fact he was technically on a mission of peace. Layers of armor protected him, from the thick cotton pads against his linen shirt, up to his chainmail hauberk, covered by a breastplate and shoulder pauldrons made up of hardened leather plates. Fur trimmed the leather, merely as a decoration. Clutched in his fist, Cael bore a lance, and carried both sword and axe at his waist. Across his back, strapped over his shoulders, was a round wooden shield. Each man in the party was outfitted in the same manner, excepting the sabrewulf pelt around Cael's waist, showing his position in the royal house.
Hooves crunched through snow, turned to a sheet of brittle ice by partially melting and refreezing each day and night. Spring was nearly upon the land, but winter still held firm, especially in the morning. Steely gray eyes ran over the landscape, particularly the thick line of trees ahead. The Old Wood. A place of superstition, myth, and monsters. Witches had always been said to live within, though no one alive had actually seen one. Unlike most visitors to the Old Wood, Cael prayed that the legends were true. When facing oblivion, sometimes one needed to make a deal with the Dark One. Not literally, of course. Cael was no darkfriend, even if some of the creatures his nation used in battle could be easily mistaken for shadowspawn.
"Form up, men." Cael ordered. "Column, double thick."
Behind him, the men of his bodyguard obeyed, guiding their mounts into a line two-by-two. The woods ahead were too thick of any wider of a formation. Cael paused at the very edge, his Captain of the Guard abreast of him at the front of the formation. Danerum Sarast was a very good friend, but an even better officer and advisor. Cael never left the palace without him.
"Something wrong, your highness?" The middle-aged veteran asked.
"No. It's nothing." Cael replied, edging his mount forward again. The horse resisted, but finally gave in. Cael hoped it wasn't sensing something he could not. Truthfully, he had felt a twinge of fear. Anyone could look upon Cael's scarred face and know he was no stranger to violence, a slightly puckered white line running from his forehead, over one eye, and onto his cheek. Another was just barely visible coming from his bottom lip and stopping just above his chin. If his experience had taught him anything, however, it was to accept fear rather than deny it. Having fear didn't make one a coward; acting on it did. With this in mind, he led his men deeper into the twisting confines of the Old Wood.
It would not take long to find what he sought.