Starke McHaryn turned to his men, all of them grim and silent in the morning fog. Without a word Starked turned and squinted to the north, the sea dead and silent, the small war sloop he was captaining unusually still. The only sounds were the waves gently lapping against the oaken hull. Turning to his second in command, Jon Owl, Starke spoke quietly, his gruff voice breaking the ominous silence.
"That's surely land Master Owl, although we won't be able to take her in, rough reef's line the shores."
Jon nodded his head slowly, without a sound, and turned to the crew and fellow wolvengard knights, giving the command to lower a small dinghy.
"We'll go in on the dingy Lord McHaryn, but I would recommend going in full kit. This island... something isn't right."
Starke nodded, absent-mindedly strapping on his heavy bastard sword, chain mail softly clinking as him and three others climbed down into the dingy. Starke called up softly, instructing the remaining men to leave the island if something went amiss. The group in the dingy were quiet as they made their way to the island, and quiet still when the sound of wood scraping sand was heard, not a word was said as they all jumped out.
Starke spoke softly, the heavy fog still shrouding most of the island.
"Something doesn't feel right lads, keep your blades ready and stay close".
The three knights did as instructed, constantly looking around at the unfamiliar terrain.
All of them were experienced soldiers, fighting throughout their lives under different masters, but even so the eery silence of the island was unnerving. Without a word Starke started down the beach, his men in tow, passing a corner a small flutter of cloth caught his eye.
All four of the knights stopped, and as one removed their helms and bowed their heads. Starke walked slowly forward and dropped to a crouch, inspecting what lay before him. The dried skeleton of a man sat in front of Starke, lying in a slumped position. Looking closer Starke realised the man was wearing a rose tabard, and that his shrivelled hand still clutched a fine long sword.
Starke reached forward grabbing a scrunched leather package in the man's other hand, reading slowly, Starke spoke up.
"It seems the lad's name was Arthal Lowedge, I hated the roses, most adunians do, but I will nae doubt their courage and strength. No warrior deserves to die like this, let us respect him in death, and bury him where he lays. Might he have rest in the afterlife."
The knights bowed their heads before two of them started digging a grave quickley, the other standing guard with Starke. When the grave was dug, Starke grasped the long sword, its edges still sharp and gave the order to move out. The group made their way back to the waiting ship, all of them glad to be rid of the eery feel. Silence was their only companion as the ship and her crew departed.