Dusk had just begun to settle over the land when the Prince Davos' escorts asserted the forest clearing safe. A short, lean man, the Baradon Demeane's youngest heir percolated his warhorse through the breach of the path, and onto open, even land.

With a solemn, impassive gaze, Davos let his eyes wander over the area. A spring was centered to one side, crenulated by thick brush and unruly vegetation. The knee-high grass tickled the horses' legs, making them paw the ground agitatedly. Men drifted into the area, flanking the youth as he dismounted. Handing off the reins to the nearest soldier, Davos strode aimlessly further into the glade.

"Sir," prompted one of the men, his voice quavering slightly. Davos recognized him as Citus, who was inexperienced in chaperoning an outing. Despite the prince's claims, the king had stipulated that in these perilous times, he not venture out unattended.

Patience already worn thin from the argument that had ensued from his father's inessential anxiety, Davos turned a cold stare to the man. Clad in the royal colors of red, black, and blue, chain mail, with ivory helm, Citus might as well have been a faceless man to him. The only distinguishable mark that implied his identity, was a thin scar that trailed one corner of his mouth.

Gesturing away the man's evident disquiet, Davos spoke simply, "Let rest your mind. Water the horses." Citus opened his mouth as if to argue, but was silenced by the prince's harsh glare.

Prince Davos was renowned for his sharp tongue and short temper. King Raithmar could prehensile his son's behavior, granting that a lad his age needed space to explore and define himself.

"Even despite the dangers that now haunt this land," Raithmar had added, cinching the argument with guile warning.

Pushing away his father's words, Davos considered the day a waste. He had been denied joyriding through the empty lands north of Baradon Capital, by the soldiers' inferior mounts. There wasn't a horse in the land that could keep pace with Hein, which fed Davos' greed for fame. He had been crowned the most dexterous rider in Baradon, creating a name for himself in the Jousts.

Stepping away from his compatriots, he observed the land before him. The high grass had been trampled recently where something had crawled out of the woods. At first, the prince dismissed it for a bear's tracking, but upon closer examination, a small glimpse of white caught his eye. Kneeling, Davos extracted a torn piece of linen from the trajectory.

Rubbing the piece of fabric between his bare hands, Davos rose slowly, musing to himself. The material was unaccustomed to the trade that came through Baradon. What reasoning would a foreigner have for passing through the Moust Woods?

Turning to peer at his minders as they stationed a perimeter of the clearing, Davos chose one soldier who was vigorously attending his mount. His helm had been settled on the ground beside his steed, and his graying hair was moist from dunking his head in the cool spring water. "Palyet!" The man raised his head, pausing only momentarily, before striding forward.

As the middle-aged soldier drew level, he pressed his sword hand to his heart, and bowed his head in recognition. When Palyet straightened, Davos presented him the strip of unordinary linen, prompting brusquely, "Do you know of what make this is?"

Leaning slightly forward, Palyet gestured for the article. Davos handed it over, being sure to avoid the scout's touch. The prince quickly withdrew his arm, studying the obedient warrior as he removed a gauntlet to feel the fabric. After several moments, Davos grew outwardly impatient, tapping his foot against a small rock in the grass. The sound echoed faintly in the stillness, but Palyet paid it no mind.

It was another minute before the soldier raised his gaze, elucidating, "I am not sure, Your Highness, but I believe this may be of Feyna stitch."

Raising an eyebrow at this statement, Davos mused with a knowing smile, "Interesting…" Taking back the strip, he gestured towards the trail of trampled grass, asking, "And what do you make of this?"

Kneeling down, Palyet ran his eyes over the length of tracking, before saying, "Looks like a human came through here. Though by the haphazard course, I would say they were either injured or fatigued. Probably stumbled upon this area by chance. Might have ripped the fabric for bandaging."

Though slightly irritated by the soldier's informality, Davos found his anger subsided by this piece of news. No Feyna had been sighted since their migration eight years previous. It was rumored that the outlandish race that had crossed the Vortexes from the Fourth Dimension, and took sanctuary on a remote island four hundred leagues south of the Mainlands. Why would a Feyna venture this far north? Were they planning on settling on the continents, rather than expatriate themselves?

Studying the off-white strip, Davos begrudged the Feyna their skill with a needle. The stitching on the material was thin and made with a delicate hand, creating a miniscule checker pattern. Lowering his arm from his face, he observed that it gave the illusion of being a single piece when not closely examined. There was a trail of intricate, golden embroidery on one tip that would require a keen eye to make.

Shaking his head in appreciation of the lovely work, Davos muttered, "Such fine make, and strong. Perhaps as strong as leather."

Nodding, Palyet interjected, "Thus the pride of the Feyna, Your Highness. I have heard tale of long days sewn into each piece of clothing."

Raising his gaze as he pocketed the fabric in his breeches, Davos inquired, "But why would a Feyna creep into these lands?"

Palyet could only offer a simple shrug and statement. "Perhaps it is one who has traversed the dimensions of recent."

Tapping his thin lips with a long index finger, Davos began to pick at this information, twisting it into a set of plans. With a knowing smirk, he returned his attention to the waiting soldier. A look of uncertainty flashed over Palyet's face at the devious intention resting in his prince's eyes.

"If I may speak, Your Highness. Perhaps we should inform King Raithmar of this discovery, before we-"

Raising a hand to inter the man's protests, Davos snapped, "There be no need. We shall track this Feyna - if he really should be one - ourselves. Can you find me where he left this area?"

Palyet hesitated only slightly before nodding. Turning, the soldier obediently crouched and studied the area. Davos eyed the soldier, still milling over formulating schemes. The Greater Powers had decided to grant him an opportunity to rise in station - to be known as something more than the second prince and heir to the Barabdon throne. Revealing the presence of Feyna on the Mainlands might exempt a treaty.

Davos' future had brightened in the highlight of this idea.

Striding to his mount, he pulled on Hein's reins impetuously. The warhorse whickered, irritated that his meal should be interrupted. Guiding his mount away from the watering hole, Davos stood and waited. It was several minutes before Palyet straightened from his search, and approached him. As he went to bow, Davos waved him onwards; heedless of formalities momentarily.

Pausing uncertainly, Palyet cleared his throat before reporting, "There are elusive signs indicating that our target may have headed further north, towards the Barrens, Your Highness."

Chewing his bottom lip, Davos spat, scowling as he muttered, "Damn, what a fool! If the Feyna traversed into the Barrens, he is as good as lost to us."

"The trail looks recent. The grass has yet to resettle."

"Well then, we mount!" As he climbed into the saddle and reined in his horse, Davos peered down his nose at the bare-headed soldier, saying, "And you shall lead us." Nodding and giving a curt bow, Palyet hurried toward his own horse. Those nearby were already settling their steeds in preparation for leave. Before Palyet could take more than three steps, Davos called him back. The soldier turned expectedly to the heir. In a cautioning undertone, Davos told him, "You would do best to not speak of this."

There was no hesitation as Palyet bowed, garbling, "Yes, Your Highness."