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Every morning since Sunflower left the fortress, Reive woke up in his new (well, it was new to him), comfortable bed, warm in the keep, hidden from the autumnal alpine cold. Every morning, he'd look around the room, where he'd added his own bookshelf full of romances and baubles and a trunk of his own supplies and effects, and he'd sigh in relief, knowing that, oh, today was going to be a good day.

He stretched and yawned, and let out a strangled, prolonged squeak. He was still getting used to the cold, and he'd often shiver and procrastinate about getting dressed, and today was no different. He sat up in the bed with the fine silk blankets pulled around him, all quilted cotton and linen, edged in satin, and planned out his dressing ritual.

First, he reached under the bed to pull out his little grooming kit. It was in a small personal chest, small enough to fit in a satchel, so it was really more of a box, but it was vaulted on top and had a little clasp and so he called it a chestette. Inside it was his brush, one he'd had since he was young. It was so familiar and friendly in his paws, with its old frayed bristles and its faded flowers painted on the back, heavy with the scent of years of his fur even though he cleaned it regularly. He stuck his tail out from the blankets and pulled it around him, and started to brush, brush, brush.

This took some time. He had a lot of fluff. Winter was coming, and in anticipation, his coat thickened. His particularity with morning brushing didn't speed things along, either. Still, he could afford to let his thoughts drift along with the bits of loose fur he shook from the brush. It could've been any time outside since these windows here were so thick and opaque, so he thought he really ought to employ one of these rapscallions as his personal servant and ask for a wake up call every morning. But then he thought about how annoying it'd be to be woken up by a knock at the door every single morning, and decided he'd put off the thought until such a time as he was embarrassed by a too-tardy morning start. As it stood, his natural clock was quite enough to press him out of bed at around the appropriate time, which had been the same for more than twenty odd years.

He finally deigned to stand up out of the warmth of the covers, and got to stretching his back. First he turned his shoulders to one side until his back popped, then the other. Then he bent backwards until the same, and then straightened up. That's about when he got to brushing his legs and up his thighs, eventually over his belly and chest, his neck and his cheek fluff, and then his back. As he did his thoughts drifted to plans of breakfast, tea time, dinner, and supper. It was too early to think about business, but food was an around-the-clock ordeal.

He peeled the felt-ready padding of red and cream vulpin fur from the brush, and put the brush away. Then from the box, he pulled a little hand mirror and a little short stone jar, just big enough to fit in the palm of his paw. The mirror he propped up on the book shelf, and he stood before it, and opened the little jar. Inside was a fine black powder, a concoction for eyeliner, which he applied with a smaller brush kept just for this. It was easy to follow the darker stain in his fur, and after all these years he hardly had to think about applying his kohl, until it sat black and heavy about his eyes, top and bottom, peaking into wings on the side; his signature look. He grinned into the mirror, turned his head to admire his golden teeth and eyes and the ear rings in his ears from all kinds of angles.

"Perfect. The very picture of a Vulpin Bandit Prince."

Speaking of his teeth, while he let the make up dry, he took a bit of scrap linen cloth and the little basin of water he kept in here, and dipped the former in the latter, and then into a little dish of salt-muddled sage leaves until it made a paste, and began to scrub his teeth with it, ivory and gold alike. His breath, now fresh and herbal, was far from one of his worst features.

Then Reive sighed, and looked to his clothes. It was time to get dressed, to become fully presentable. He went over to his trunk, unlatched it, and selected a shirt and breeches and long off-white stockings from it. He carefully slid the shirt on, with the collar open, in a way that would not smear his makeup. He used to put the shirt on before he put on his face, but ever since he ruined one for the day with kohl, he switched their order. Then he took his stockings, which were made from woven fabric panels instead of knitted, and pulled them clear up to his thighs. Afterwards, he took his trousers, and slid them on over his legs, and pulled them up so the tighter part at the bottom let the looser part at the top blouse over just right, and shoved his shirt into the waistband and tucked it all in. The cool linen fabric rested light on his fur, and the cotton trousers were well broken-in and comfortable.

Then he pulled on his boots. He slid his paws into the toes, and took the uppers of the boots and began buttoning them closed from bottom to top, with the fitted lower legs of his trousers tucked in. These boots were as old as his career, and they'd seen many marches and much mud and much snow and had been resoled and repaired numerous times, but they still looked killer-sharp, and they were. Inside the right boot, there was a hidden dagger after all.

He grabbed his jack-of-plates, which he'd hung on the cloak rack by the door. Its woad-blue fabric and stitching couldn't cover all the of the steel plates, as it hung empty and partially inside out from a single shoulder. As he grabbed it, he was starting to feel like a real beast again, he felt his wit flow through him, he felt more himself. He slid his arms through the jack, and set his shirt proper within it, and then closed it and pulled the laces through to tie it shut. It hung comfortably tight. The second-to-last thing was to grab his sword belt and tie it on, giving support to the jack and taking its full weight off his shoulders and transferring it to his hips. The last thing was to take each of his twelve golden rings, all of various types and styles, and put them each on one of his digits, save for the finger that wore three.

Now the Dread Bandit Reive Giltfang was complete and ready to face the world.

Or, at least, breakfast.

He went up stairs and burst into the kitchen, startling the jerbeen that was managing the sourdough starter just about then.

"The time?"

"Uhf, about seven now?" the Jerbeen said. A bit of the wheaty starter had splashed onto their apron.

"Right on time, then. I woke up famished. I expect a fine breakfast today."

The jerbeen went to reply but Reive had already left. He'd been perking up steadily over time, recovering from the kind of hidden frailty there'd been about him when things had first changed. Now he was a menace. At least his walk around the fortress to bother the night guard at the end of their watch kept him out of the kitchen while breakfast was being made...

The tradition was for the day watch to eat their breakfast first, and then for the night watch to eat theirs after changing of the guard. This staggered approach kept the walls from being unmanned at any point, and though there was very little risk and things had been mostly quiet since the raucous night when Sunflower became their new warlord, it was still a state of alertness that Reive strove for. He was not a total fool, he knew he had to keep some kind of discipline in the rank-and-file. Exercises, watches, continued duties- these things were all tools in his cabinet to keep the rabble occupied and keep them from becoming bored. Between that, and the occasional sallying-forth to patrol the mountains, or to scavenge from the remains of farms that had been torched (They were not torched by him personally, he'd say), the swords and spears were polished, the scabbards and bows were oiled, the bowstrings were waxed and pine-pitched, the arrows were neatly inventoried, and the ballistae was tarp covered and awaiting use.

The fort was getting back to ship shape, too. The holes had been patched, the soot had been scrubbed away, the secondary barracks in the under-keep had been rebuilt, and Reive appreciated the handiwork on his way back down to the refurbished personal dining quarters. Here, all evidence of that climactic battle had been scoured clean, and replaced with a new table alike in dignity, with new seats, with cushions and things, all slightly used and with little enough scorching to be usable. They were examples of the various carpentry traditions around the wood, myriad and mismatched, but wholly functional.

The kitchen staff (For what the word staff was worth; a jerbeen and a mapach, and sometimes a second jerbeen), had seen Reive reenter and had set about serving him, so shortly after he sat down, a platter was brought in and set down before him. There upon it sat a piping hot bowl of oatmeal, buttered, with cinnamon ground and thrown upon it, with some wild mountain blueberries sitting neatly arranged in the center. A pewter plate of waffles with sweet syrup sat next to a chipped ceramic plate with glistening softboiled eggs and a thick, butter-toasted, peppered slice of sourdough to soak up whatever yolk may spill. Next to that, a smaller dish sat with sliced and salted cucumbers, almost as a palate cleanser or a refresher. And to drink, he had a nice wild crab apple cider.

It was modest, but it was enough for a single fox to last until lunch.

He got to eating, first the oatmeal, for it would be awful if he left it to cool, and then he tossed an egg carelessly into his mouth, and then he cut and ate the waffle. Then he had some cucumbers, and a dram of cider, took a breath, and went back to the eggs and toast.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He had the remnants of the toast in one hand and an egg in the other when he looked up to see it swing open without his invitation, revealing one of the tubey mapach wringing their paws.

"Uh, Sir, there is someone at the gate."

He swallowed his bite. There was silence between the mapach at the door and him, as he gestured in a circle with the toast in his hand like he was trying to real out the rest of it. The mapach stammered for a second.

"Righ, sorry, er, he says he's a courier, from our contacts in Alderheart. Says he has some mail, especially for you."

Giltfang let the corners of his mouth tighten to a frown. "Why haven't you let him in, then?"

"Well, your orders were to let none pass without--"

Reive cussed, then said "I know what my orders were! I just, oh, come on, he's a courier! Give him some breakfast, I'll be with him when I'm done with mine."

The mapach swung his snout up and down and then withdrew.

It was fairly standard business after that. He met with the courier, bid him stay for the day at least, and told the rabble to write anyone if they knew how to and wished to, as mail service to the fortress was sparse. He took his letter, recognizing Sunflower's flowing and formally learned script, and threw it on his desk for later. He did like seeing his name on the front, but he'd get to it at his leisure. There was much to do today, but he wouldn't forget about it.

It wasn't until late in the evening after dinner and a little song and more than a little wine that he was back in his quarters that he saw the letter. Reive had totally forgotten about it, just like he told himself he wouldn't. He snatched it up and broke the seal and unfolded it and began to read. Thankfully it was quite brief.

'My Dearest and Only Golden Grin,' it began. Reive smirked. Ah, the epithets were on thick that day, weren't they? He kept reading.

'I hope you are well. Soon we will do something about money, but for now enjoy the rest and grow strong.' Certainly, the relaxation had been nice, if its welcome was wearing thin. 'I have enjoyed Alderheart greatly and if it does not burn first I would like to bring you here for fancy wine and a new outfit when this is all over.' Ah, that could be nice, even if it would be a little nerve wracking. Wine, fine clothes, and fine food were certainly Reive's favorite things, and birdfolk were quite good at that. It would just be the fear of being right in their midst... And, the heights, too.

'I spoke with Cyrus.' He stopped. What? He spoke with whom? But he'd just killed him two weeks ago. Was that a lie? Or had Cyrus Krauley... No. He read the line again. It wasn't gone and he hadn't misread it. Reive's fur all stood on end.

' I am going to the Scorched Grove, and will be on my way by the time you read this.' Oh, oh no.

'You know that I have made a hundred terrible mistakes, but this is not one.

Do what thou must to maintain the fortress.

Truly Forever Yours,

Sunflower of the Basking Meadow'

Reive closed the letter. Suddenly, this room was no longer so comfortable.