It was a squall in the winter of 1562 in northeastern port town of Frost Point.  A ravenous wind cut through the air and the rain blew sideways over the ocean.  The soldiers were asleep in the barracks, save a few, on the ramparts of the fort who kept watch over a raging sea.  A fire burned in the guard tower and two friends sat close to the flames.

It was warm in the lookout and the soldiers sat in silence.  One dozed on the straw against the wall and the other sat at the table with a cup of hot cider, gazing out the window into the storm, the fire beside him.  The guard was content.  It was enough to be safe and dry this night, but even better to be well fed, as this detail provided.

There was an hour left on his watch, and he was sleepy, like his friend.  There he was, no home to go back to, really, no plans for when he became old, just to go wherever he was sent next.  There was peace in the land.  The last threat was 15 years ago with King Richard the Foul Mouthed, who was defeated and imprisoned.  Smugglers appeared occasionally from the new world, but that’s about as exciting as it got on this watch.  The guard fell asleep.