The dining hall of Gostahof was a dark place, stone and timber made up the architecture, the latter lining the walls in carved excellence, sometimes hidden behind rich tapestries. The table the family dined from was carved from birch, long enough to accomodate a dozen people. Tonight, however, only four sat in the glow of the fireplace, lending an oppressive air to the place.

At the head of the table sat Lord Berchthold, rubbing bear-like hands together. To his right sat his wife, next to her, across from von Bolstedt, sat their son.

Mauritz seemed young, 16 or 17 years of age, maybe, with a pelt of light hairs on his face that wouldn’t’ve looked out of place on a loaf of mouldy bread.

He knew, of course, that he himself had likely looked like that not too long ago, but he still couldn’t help but feel superior, stroking the fledgling beard he had cultivated.

Mauritz seemingly held little love for him either. Since the moment the two had met there’d been an unspoken contest between the two, a spirit of confrontation that Adebar did not fully understand, but had embraced nonetheless, if only to drown out the gnawing doubt in his heart.

They ate a roasted chicken, greyish bread of middling quality alongside, washed down with a watery ale that seemed suitable enough for the occasion, but lacked anything remarkable.

The meagre meal provided little joy to the family and their guest, but meat was a luxury Adebar appreciated, doubly so if it hadn’t been hunted by Mauritz, who had failed to catch anything greater in the previous days. In truth Adebar found the food impressively filling after his time on the road.

The silent accusation hung ripe in the air, it was clear the boy felt it keenly, shifting around uncomfortably in his seat.

His father and mother meanwhile were duelling for supremacy by throwing glares and stares, nudging and almost imperceivably shaking their heads.

Berchtold wasn’t happy.

Finishing his piece of chicken breast, reclining in his chair, Adebar gave off a loud, overly contented sigh.

“I am in your debt, Lord. Once more I owe you and your staff for a filling meal.”

Uncomfortable silence followed, Berchthold only briefly nodding out of politeness.

It was Mildred who responded, clearly fed up with her husband’s antics.

“You are our guest, good Adebar, we gladly share what we have.”

“How little ever it may be.”

Another fierce glaring match broke out, while Mauritz grew ever redder.

“Still, we find ourselves in the midst of winter, I feel it my obligation to one day repay your kindness.” He half-turned to Mauritz now, giving a thin, dishonest smile.

“As my father used to say, watch who gives when he has little luck, and you will find a man of true worth.”

The boy exploded, drops of splittle flew from his mouth as he barked back.

“Maybe you should go out there then! See what kind of luck you ‘ave, you poncy bastard!”

It was now Mildred’s turn to explode at her son, reminding him of his breeding, that he’d been raised to be a gentleman, not a loudmouthed brat.

“Maybe you can get him to be your gentleman, it's all those Reiklanders are, fops and dandies!” His voice was cracking, snapping from high to low like the wail of a banshee. He was quickly roused, it seemed.

“Given, we do not wear leaves all day…” the chance was too good to pass up, Adebar thought, smiling thinly. He hadn’t had the chance for a bit of verbal sparring in a while.

“No, only hairshirts and bowties round y-”

“Mauritz!”

“No mother, I won’t let this-'' another painful cracking of his voice, giving the impression of the snotty youth even more credence, “this Sigmarite fop come in ‘ere and behave all ‘igh and mighty! Look at ‘im, so smug!”

Von Bolstedt threw his hand to his chest in feigned shock, placing the other flat on the table as if he required support.

“You would dare draw the All Highest into your hunting-troubles?! Maybe I know why the woods are so full of twisted beasts if you do not fear such blasphemy!”

To Mauritz’ credit, he was quicker with his response than Adebar would’ve figured. Maybe all the frustrations of youth were more miraculous than he remembered?

“Beastmen aren’t a problem if you fight them, instead of cowering in inns all night long!”

Now it was the patriarch’s turn, the wild-haired giant raising his hand before bellowing at his son: “No further boy! I saw von Bolstedt fighting the beasts as bravely as any other, I will not ‘ave you slandering a man’s honour at my table!”

The boy quietened down, but Mauritz clearly wasn’t done.

“Fighting maybe, I once saw a cornered rat fight a tomcat too.”

As much as Adebar hated to admit it, the hook worked, stinging his pride far more than it should have.

“Listen here, boy, I have hunted down scoundrels, thieves and cutthroats between here and Reikland for the entirety of this damnable winter, so if you believe you have something to say about my skill at arms I’d gladly take up that particular glove!”

Mauritz clapped his hands in frustrated mock-glee, carrying an expression of cocky self-assuredness.

“Oh, you hunt people do you? Maybe you should help us get rid o-”

The birch table shook with thunder as Berchthold’s fist struck out, silencing the whole table. The giant stared dead ahead, into the remaining scraps of chicken, expression resting somewhere between contemplation and a yearning to crack skulls.

Something important had been said, something that should not have gotten out, Adebar surmised, finding both ire and his interest in the petty game with Mauritz to have dissipated, swept away by an unknown flame of investment.

The boy grumbled something, drawing a snarl from his father.

“Mildred,” spoke Berchthold, “more chicken.”