As Eothain stepped up and out from the wtilight of her room into the blinding sunlit morning outside, she looked around in amazement, taking it all in as though something might disappear if left unnoticed. The thick wooden door that she had just walked out of was burnished with faded bronze trim, the sole acknowledgement that these humble quarters was where the clan chieftain slept. The door itself was submerged into a small grassy hill, its hinges lost in the tangled blades and roots. To the casual observer, the door seemed to simply meld and melt into the undergrowth.

Looking around her, she could see that she was in a hilly valley, nestled in the shadow of a brooding, show-capped mountain. At the mouth of the valley, far off in the distance, monstrous walls of white stone guarded the valley, pierced only by a great arched gate. The Riders had chosen a natural defense; the valley was encircled on all sides but one by the mountaintops, reaching heavenwards as though in eternal praise for their Creator. Unless an attacker fancied trying to breach the White Gate, they would be forced to undertake an arduous, freezing, possibly fatal climb to cross the mountains.

Stretching from the gate all the way to the foot of the mountains was a narrow, paved road, lined with scattered workshops and voluminous tents dyed vivid shades of grassy green and touched with rich hues of silver and gold. In the smithies, she could see figures basked in the glow of their forges, hammering away at red-hot blades clutched in their gloved hands. In the center of the valley, a small well stood, surrounded by rickety vendors carts selling fine cuts of meat, fresh vegetables and herbs, and intricately crafted jewelry to the thriving crowds around them. Mothers chatted glibly around the well, often reaching down to keep their toddling children from wandering off into mischief; gaggles of teenage girls giggled and squabbled playfully amongst themselves, flirting with the occasional sentry off-duty; elderly, wisened men and women, clad in well worn coats of mail and segmented plates of dented armor, huddled in open tents, telling stories to hordes of eagerly attentive children.

Closing her eyes, the intermingled sounds of hammers ringing on steel, joyous laughter and chatter from the tongues of both genders, and the low keening of bagpipes from the wall melded into one chaotic, lively symphony. Opening her eyes again, she searched through the crowd, looking for the familiar figure of Lord Addison, and realized that in the entire crowd, she couldn't find any grown men. Her heart lept to her throat, before she spotted a large crowd down by the White Gate, crowded around the wide open doors of a tall barn, but somehow she got the feeling that it wasn't grain that was stored there. Steeling up her nerve, she dashed haphazardly through the crowd, down the long winding road, unaware that as she ran, many a head turned, and a cloud of whispering began.

"The O'Skye girl-"

"Lucifer came after her for what now?"

"Farawyn came after her personally-"

Finally reaching the thick ring of men, she could see that there were quite a few women mixed into the crowd, and around the outer layer, a smattering of a few teenagers too. All of them were dressed in the same uniform- coats of maille, with heavy-looking breastplates buckled on over them, swords belted around their waists, half-shoulder pauldrons strapped on, shields slung across their backs or resting against their legs, greaves strapped to their shins, and full-knuckle gauntlets strapped to their forearms. What really caught her eyes, however, was that each Rider had painted their armor individually. One teen girl, on the outer rim of the crowd, had painted her armor a faded bone-white, with crimson detailing, in distinctive contrast to her short-cut black hair, and her glistening silver eyes. An older man's armor, deeper in the crowd, was sea blue, broken up only by white bars across his back, presumably repeated across his chest as well. Another woman Rider smiled back at her, clad in vivid green armor, her shaggy mane of faded red hair draping down onto her plates.

The crowd of warriors was painted all the colors of the rainbow, and just as diverse in gender and height and backgrounds, the one thing that gave any indication that this seemingly disorganized rabble was any way connected was a simple golden cross emblazoned on their chestplates, outlined in silver. Standing before her was an army for the Lord's cause, in physical manifestation. Standing in the center of the crowd, leaning against the wide open doors of the barn, clad in silver and golden armor, was Lord Addison. Gone were the humble brown robes. In their place was armor fit for a King, or one of his most beloved of followers. His eyes wandered through the crowd, and when his eyes locked with hers, she felt the same gentle, soothing invisible hand stroke the chords to her soul, and felt a faint sense of peace and encouragement wash through her.

The crowd went silent, watching her, as she carefully made her way through the crowd, her eyes never leaving Lord Addison's. When she reached the open circle separating the crowd from the armory, and Addison, she fell into a deep curtsy, barely daring to look up at Lord Addison. "I thank you most humbly, my lord, for your hospitality in taking me in. I accept your invitation of remaining here and training under you." Silence fell for a few moments, before she felt gentle, but strong and gauntleted hands lifting her gaze to his, and stared up into the laughing, gleaming blue eyes of Lord Addison. 

"My dear child, there is no need for formalities here. Call me Farawyn. 'Lord Addison' sounds so stuffy and formal."  She beamed shyly, then wider, as he helped her to her feet, turning her around to face the crowd.

"Gentlemen-"

"And ladies," a voice called out from the crowd, to the mild amusement of the crowd.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Farawyn corrected, smiling to himself, "As some of you know, the Infernal Rider has risen again."The crowd burst into excited chatter amongst themselves, expressing disbelief and grim amusement. In the front row, a young girl, barely 10, blanched as pale as her fair hair, gripping a small dagger on her belt tightly. The crowd silenced again as Farawyn continued.

"I recieved reports on his apparent activities across the bay, in Hibernia, but I was not aware of the damage it had done until I stumbled upon young Eothain here, down by the border, with the Rider in hot pursuit. It had disguised itself as a knight in royal armor." He paused, looking meaningfully to specific faces in the crowd. "It could sense not only who she was, but what she was as well. When her village wouldn't give her up, it slaughtered them with shadows, and pursued her when she broke ground to flee. It was nearly upon her, when she stumbled into the grounds of the old Watchtower, and into me." He finished the story promptly, nodding respectfully down at Eothain. 

"She has already accepted the invitation to stay here and train, but now only one question remains. Who will train the girl?" Silence fell again, longer this time. Finally, after some time, a deep voice with a thick Caledonian accent spoke.

"I will train her, if she wishes." A tall, grim figure in grey armor stepped out of the crowd, his helmet clutched under one arm. Emblazoned on the brow of the helmet, the strange cross design she had seen earlier seemed to glow in silver from the scarred and pitted helmet. His armor was scratched and battered, its paint faded, chipping around the edges. His long red hair hung in his face, but she could see his gleaming green eyes beneath his shaggy locks, and his lips in a slight smile. Farawyn Addison smiled softly, a strange light in his eyes. "I approve of the match. Eothain O'Skye, meet Gwaine Morran. My second in command."