Most dungeon adventurers hope to come back with overflowing chests of gold, ancient artifacts that could sell for castles worth of coin, magic scrolls that could divine foals out of thin air. Riches and fame that come with tales to match the bounty, to make it worth the dents in the armor to make it down that deep. But the hard-found truth of it all, is that it’s really, really…. Messy.

Gabriel was covered head to hoof in mud, slime, and monster guts— and while his trained hawk Aziraphale was more than content to pick off the morsels of dirty meat off his feathers, Gabriel most certainly was not. His bird settled on the column, preening and gobbling up what treats he could scrounge from between his talons, while Gabriel employed the public baths on the outskirts of the Citadel. There was one at every major roadway out of the stronghold, with the frequency of soldiers, trained knights, and hired mercenaries alike finding work in the keep.

With company like that, they weren’t the cleanest bunch. But Gabriel couldn’t risk being seen the way they paraded themselves about with the gore of their exploits. Those adventurers were followed by the reputations of their fathers and fathers fathers that preceded them. Gabriel had no such legacy. And to compensate for that, especially with whom he worked under, he carefully rebraided his mane, laid down his coat, and watched the last of the brown muck and blood drain out into the grass.

Climbing out of the bath, he whistled for Aziraphale, and the bird of prey coasted from his perch and rested on his shoulder. The pair wove through the bustling crowds of archers, battle-magic users, and regarded chieftains— all eager to sell their catch and to spend it all on the nearest tavern. As Gabriel travelled further into the heart of the warriors keep, the streets only expanded while those walking on them lessened. The shabby wooden and thatch buildings became smooth stone, and the muddy streets were now flourishing with sweet grass and paths paved with carefully placed gravel and sand.

It all was simply to speak praises of the castle nestled at the Citadel’s core. It wasn’t an extravagant thing— it was made out of the same solid rock the walls were. But it had withstood hundreds of winters, and probably would bear witness to at least a thousand more. Its windows were narrow, more like archers peepholes than those for a royal to longingly gaze out of, and as he passed the guards at its gates, the courtyards were barren of exotic flowers and animals— rather, they were good for little more than battle training for the knights that stood at every hall and entryway.

The castle was little more than a hollow shell. Not since the King had disappeared into the dungeon, and left his bastard son behind to watch over it. Not with any warning, however— and much to the dismay of the consort and their verifiable children. But the General ran what was left of the monarch’s kingdom like he had his army— and long gone were the peasants and farmland that were raided when the King’s absence was a more…. Temporary ordeal. All that was left was the soldiery, and the kind of work that their presence attracted.

But Gabriel was no general. Nor had he a lineage to be squandered by infidelity. His room wasn’t the coffin of a great man’s mistakes.

It was the smaller one that was shoddily built beside it. It held the basic necessities of a soldier, with a few of the luxuries that a knight would be granted from his title— and the unspoken responsibility to protect the General. As Gabriel set his armor on its stand, and relieved Aziraphale of his post, he knew sleep would find him much sooner than it would his keeper. Einarr would ask of his presence in the coming hours, and yet another night would be spent collecting maps of the Dungeon and charting out routes, all to return the King to his deathbed. An unspoken power had grasped the aged stallion, and one that wielded his name and his body like a sword.

And soon, these plans would come to fruition.

The Mad King would soon be put down for good.