26

There's a bit of a queue before the high-gabled gatehouse of Duke Ruffino's keep. Laborers and serving-folk have their carts closely inspected by His Grace's footmen before receiving grudging admission, while a separate lane of silk-clad merchants and elegant nobles on horseback are waved through with deep genuflections.

You hold your bundle of possessions tightly to your chest as you wait your turn. The fortress walls are enormous, and the soaring towers of the keep beyond them higher still.

Finally, a sentry is standing before you, a teal tabard draped over her shoulders and a massive pike in one gloved hand. Her conical helmet is a miniaturization of the pointy gatehouse just behind her.

Her face is openly skeptical. "State your business."