The battle was going badly. Sir Terrance Dunwell, Captain of His Majesties' 4th Dragon Knight Squadron, thought to himself as he took the stairs from his cabin on the lower decks up to the top deck of the Royalist Flagship, the Royal Sovereign, as she lay in port above Londinium.

It didn't look that way on the surface. To the untrained eye, the Royalist position seemed strong. Twelve ships of the line, including the Royal Sovereign, stood ready to defend Londinium along with the 1st, 3rd, 4th, and 8th Dragon Knights, and a ground force of twenty thousand professional troops dispatched by allies of the Royal Family.

Opposing them was an army of thirty five thousand poorly trained and poorly equipped commoners pressed into military service as a stopgap until mercenaries from the continent could arrive. They were supported by two squadrons of Dragon Knights and a hodgepodge fleet of defector warships, up gunned merchantmen, and privateers.

The force disparity greatly favored the Royalists who were fielding a smaller but much better equipped and trained ground force, and significantly more powerful aerial arm. In addition, Londinium would be an attack against a defended position where the attacking force would expected to need at least three men to match every one defender. By all sense, the Rebel Army would be crushed at the gates of Londinium and its leaders brought swiftly before the King for trial and execution. By all sense. That had also what had been said prior to Lexington when that accursed Priest had only rallied a force of ten thousand and a handful of Nobles to his cause.

First the fifth Dragon Knights had defected along with ten ships of the line, soundly winning the Battle of Lexington for the Rebels. Next Fleet Admiral Blake, former Fleet Admiral as he was now wanted on charges of high treason, had ordered all ships to stand down in port and deny combat with any Rebel or Royalist flagged ship, denying the King access to almost half of Albion's advanced navy. At first, Dunwell had been as outraged by this treachery as his superiors, with the help of the Fleet the Rebels could be defeated in a matter of days.

But then the first reports had started to come in of Rebel strongholds sprouting up across Albion. Whole cities defected as they were besieged by the forces of Nobles rallying to the banner of 'Reconquista'. In many cases, these small armies were nothing but jokes, a few hundred men trained and lead, poorly, by the sons of the low ranked Nobility. But they appeared everywhere at once. To fight them would be like attempting to beat back the sea with swords.

As the Army had begun to lose control and fall back to the Ports and strongholds along the White Cliffs, voices of dissent had begun to speak out against the King and the worst excesses of Royal Privilege. Sensing the change in fortunes, and the opportunity for themselves, the nobility were beginning to change sides in growing numbers, undermining the strength of the Royalist position further. Even former allies of the Royal Family had begun to pull away, withdrawing their support from King James, perhaps even planning to fully join the Rebels.

It had all gone so smoothly, events cascading one after the other, almost as if they had been orchestrated by some outside force. The thought chilled the Captain to his soul. Dunwell had begun to understand then that the Nobles in open rebellion were simply the tip of a much bigger threat that lay deeper within the mists. Someone was funding them, supplying them, tipping the battles in their favor from behind the scenes. But who? Dunwell stroked the small diary nestled in his jacket pocket.

It could not be anyone in Albion. The Royal Family had been careful to gather power to itself over the centuries, ensuring that 'Noble Authority Flowed From Brimir and the Crown' a policy that had guaranteed supremacy and security of the Tudor line for generations. A foreign power was interfering in Albion's affairs, and in such a way that the White Isles traditional defenses of unassailable geography meant nothing.

Blake's actions began to make sense, seeming almost prophetic as the Rebellion grew. The Fleet could little afford to take sides in the civil war and tear itself apart, opening the country to invasion from one of the powerful Halkegenian kingdoms. The Navy would remain neutral for now, and side with the victor when the time came.

It had thus been with a heavy heart that Sir Dunwell finally ascended onto the top deck of the flagship and was met by a gust of cold autumn wind. The Knight pulled his jacket shut as he made his way along the starboard side heading fore towards the rigging and helm where his superior would be waiting. The Royal Sovereign was the largest ship in Albion's fleet, fully one hundred and fifty mails in length, larger even than a first rate ship of the line.

Her construction was similar to that of any other ship of the line of battle, a heavily framed wooden ovoid covered in gun ports. The Royal Sovereign in particular had been constructed of heavy oak timbers that had earned her a reputation in battle that she Dread Not mage, nor dragon, nor cannon fire.

Like all Albionian warships, the Royal Sovereigns main masts were located far forward, attached to six heavy brass pivots affixed directly to the ship's brass keel cap. This design maximized the space along the side of the hull for mountain gun batteries and allowed broadsides to be fired without risk of the ship hitting her own sails. The configuration had long been used by the ship builders of Albion and had over time been adopted by many on the continent with mixed success.

At last Dunwell came to stand before the helm and the man he had come to give his report to. "My Prince." Dunwell bowed reverently.

Crown Prince Edward Tudor of Albion was of the age where he was beginning to resemble his father greatly, not at all like his brothers who took after their mother both in her softer features and softer temperament. Though impeccably groomed, the Prince's eyes were deeply ringed from lack of sleep. He looked displeased as he noticed Dunwell, waving for the other officers to depart.

"You bring me bad tidings." Prince Edward predicted.

Dunwell sighed inwardly before beginning his report, or rather, presented his report. He handed a piece of folded paper the Prince who carefully opened it and frowned as he read the contents. His frown turned to agitation and then trembling rage before he began tearing the paper into pieces, throwing them to the deck.

"Where was this found?!" Edward hissed.

"It's one of over thousands we've retrieved so far. This one, I believe, was found nailed to the door of the Globe Theater." Dunwell explained and waited once more for his Prince's temper to run its course.

"The Theater . . . My brother's theater?!" The Prince was between anger and tears as he recalled his brother, the middle Prince, Lionel, a quiet and generous man. He had been found in his theater box with an assassin's dagger in his back, the opening casualty of the Civil War. The King had suspected his son's young wife, Mary Adeline of the crime, and ordered her beheaded over the protests of her family. The Baron of Adeline had been among the first to rally behind Cromwell's cause.

Dunwell calmly collected the scraps of paper as he waited for his Prince to compose himself. Pieced together once more, the scraps of paper were a broadsheet calling for the Good People of Albion to shirk off the chains of excess placed on them by the Royal family and join with the holy cause of Reconquista. 'Equality! Fraternity! Victory!' Was printed daringly in red ink across one of the largest remaining scraps of paper. Copies of the broadsheet had been found throughout Londinium and by now the city watch wasn't even bothering to tear them down. It was either treason, or simple apathy on the part of the residents.

At last, Edward spoke. "Look at them all down there." His voice was a mix of boredom and disgust as he looked down on the streets of Londinium a hundred mails beneath them. To Dunwell who had seen this same sight many times, the city looked more or less normal, no different than any other night. Of course, there were signs at street level, but from up here, you could forget that there was a war going on. "I wonder what goes through their heads. Do they care not one iota for their King and Princes' who protect and lead them? Tell me, Sir Dunwell, what do you know of duty?"

Sir Terrance Dunwell opened his eyes and was greeted by the sight of the ceiling of a canvas tent.

"Back among the living at last I see." A voice, familiar, but not heard for many years came from off to the side. He attempted to crane his neck, and was greeted by something else - pain. The last moments of his mad attempt to cut off the Winged Girl and the Prince from their return to Newcastle flashed before his eyes.

"Scirocco?" He asked automatically.

"That Wind Drake is still with you? If she was the one you were riding, she's hurt but alive. She's been snapping at the healers all day. I'm frankly amazed you still put up with such a temperamental mount."

"Old habits." Dunwell replied, licking dry lips as he tried to sit up.

"Easy now, Lad. Your years are finally catching up to you it seems." The voice said, a grizzled hand coming around his shoulder and helping him to sit up slowly. The pain returned, but distant now as he was propped into a sitting position. "Broken arm, deep lacerations, a stab wound that somehow missed anything important, and a cracked collarbone. That crash landing did you no favors." At last, he was able to confirm the identity of his visitor, though he had already known.

The man had once been black haired, but that had been long ago, when he had still been a mere ship's Captain and Dunwell had been a new Recruit to the Dragon Knights still trying to rein in a temperamental Rhyme Dragon. Now he was a white haired man of advanced years, an officer and gentleman whose ambitions had been fulfilled and whose line of succession was secured through two sons and a daughter with their own children.

"Viscount Blake." Dunwell nodded.

"Terrance." The Viscount replied. "I must say, seeing the Dragon Knights beaten and shamed before me has long been a deeply held dream. But I didn't think I'd see it fulfilled like this."

"What brings you to speak with a humble man such as myself?" Dunwell asked

"The same thing that sent you spiralling nearly to your death I suspect." The Admiral said, the jovial look leaving his person. "Tell me, do you remember what happened?"

Dunwell nodded stiffly, feeling the pain in his neck pulse, once, twice. "The Winged girl . . . The Faerie . . . And a Demon. The Demon came from nowhere, killed three of my men and their dragons and rampaged through the camp. I managed to head them off, but the Faerie girl and another, a Faerie swordswoman, managed to attack me head on in flight. I believe they were thrown into my path by the giant." The words sounded ridiculous even as he spoke them but to his surprise, the Viscount simply nodded as if that explained everything. "Yes, I've gathered that much from Sir Wells' report. He managed to see most of it from the air, I believe he was the first to arrive after you were torn from the sky."

"Then I don't know what else I can say." Dunwell replied as he managed to sit fully upright, placing his feet on the ground. He was shirtless, but almost the entirely of his torso was covered in bandages, including a heavy gauze patch that covered his entire side and reeked of medical reagents. His left arm was slung in a splint and his right shoulder had been completely bound in place.

"Anything about the Faeries would be appreciated. I don't need to know what they did. I need to know what they will do, what they're capable of." Blake explained, placing his hands on his knees.

"Sir?"

The old admiral chuckled fondly. "It seems I've finally been found worthy of Lord Cromwell's attention. I've been asked to take command of the siege here at Newcastle. I want to know everything you can tell me about these new enemies you've faced."

Dunwell nodded slowly. "Very well, then if I may be so bold, may we perhaps speak while we walk. I would like to see to my familiar." The Knight said as he rose to his feet, accepting the Admiral's shoulder for support.

"Easy now, you were out for almost a full day while the healers saw to the internal injuries. They left the surface wounds to heal properly so as not to overtax your body." The Viscount said, though this did not stop him from helping Dunwell to make his way from the tent.

The Knight Captain squinted as he looked out at the noon day sun and the rows of orderly white canvas tents that made up the officer's quarter of the siege line. This portion of the encampment was positioned on a hill opposite Newcastle, giving a view of the siege positions that spread out in both direction right up to the cliffs.

It also gave an unobstructed view of the destruction caused by the rampaging monster the day before. A line had been cut straight through the camp running parallel with one of the roadways. Kicked over wagons and wood barricades, reduced to kindling, had yet to be fully removed, nor had a replacement gate been mounted where the road crossed into the no man's land separating the two lines of defense.

"Quite a mess, eh?" The admiral commented as the two men made their way down towards the stables where the dragons were kept.

"It didn't look this bad from the air yesterday." Though admittedly he had only seen it for but a moment prior to his strafing run.

"Some of the damage was from the panic afterwards no doubt." The Admiral observed. "The troops are rather discouraged by what they saw, morale has taken a sharp dive. All the old stories of Albion are being spread around. Do you believe some are even saying that the Winged Girl is truly a Fae Princess and that beast was her Spriggan bodyguard?"

Dunwell snorted, he remembered the old stories. It was said that the malformed lesser Fae were often kept as loyal guardians to the Daughters of the Faerie Queen, hiding away in sleeves and pockets until their services were needed, where they would then swell into giants. Only, Dunwell knew enough of the Faerie's origins to know that such a tale was ridiculous.

"In any case. I've ordered light field guns to be brought in and set up in case that monster shows itself again. Musket fire may not have done much, but if it's anything like a dragon, a few pounds of iron might be another story. Now speak up man! I've had my fill of fairy tales and rumors. What are the facts?!"

As they walked, Dunwell explained what he knew of the Faeries and their origins, their combat ability, and their enigmatic leader. It appeared the Admiral had not been fully informed of what had been learned from questioning the undead Fae in Reconquista's possession and was quite dubious to hear the full story.

"I find it as unbelievable as you." Dunwell admitted. "But I find it doubtful that these . . . Creatures resurrected by Lord Cromwell could lie in their present state." In truth, he knew not one wit about necromancy so he couldn't truly say, nor did he want to know much of the subject. "All that can truly be said is that they are melee combatants of the highest order and have other powers as well given the monster the other day." Strange that Arguile had mentioned no such power. Perhaps magic from the Faeries on the continent? Had one of them arrived to aid their kin? "There's been no sign of it?"

"None." The Admiral confirmed. "Though some of the men claim they saw it dissolving into shadows before the Walls of Newcastle. Perhaps it was some sort of summoning, or a Golem of some sort."

"No." Dunwell shook his head, recalling the glowing, hate filled eyes of that beast. "That was no Golem. If it comes again, the Dragon units should stay well clear and attempt to bombard it. They should take no chances in approaching it under any circumstances."

The Admiral nodded sincerely. "I'll advise the Knights of your concerns."

"One other thing." Dunwell said. "The winged girl and at least one other. It's said the Faeries on the Continent can use some form of flight magic. The ones I've faced have been unable to do so up until now. I believe that might be changing. When next we face them, we may not have the advantage of the skies."

Admiral Blake slowed his, and thus Dunwell's, pace as he considered this problem. "That is troubling." He confessed. "I'll have to be sure the ships are prepared for any attempted assaults."