You sleep that night soundly, though not without some introspection. Though your brother had been removed from the line of inheritance due to his ailment, any son of his born healthy enough to avoid a similar decree would, by virtue of being the grandchild of your father, the previous Viscount, a perfectly valid heir to the title. The House of Galliota would, should you be unable to bear a heir of your own, be secured. Though you certainly wish to have a son of your own, as any man in his right mind does, perhaps he need not be a 'valid heir', if that is the case?

But, it is far too early to think of such things. At least, that is what you think, as you finally doze off to slumber...

The sound of lighnting crashes upon your ears. Your eyes shot open from beneath the covers of your bed. Your first thoought is that it is still dark; none but the faint flame of the oil lamp hubg on a stand not too far from you. What you can only presume to be a torrential downpour crashes upon the roof of your tent with a deafening roar, as though you were right amidst an army of arquebusiers firing an endless barrage of shots. Throwing off the covers, you move to stand up, and immediately feel wetness upon your feet. It would seem that not even the barrier that had been placed around your tent was enough to keep off these Tilanese rains.

Hurrying to get up, yet still in your sleepwear, you begin to check your belongings, checking to see if any are at risk of being ruined by the rain. To your good fortune, however, it would seem your servants had the good sense of placing most of your goods in well-made wooden chests, but your books remained in your reading desk still. Left out, they might become filled with mold from the humid vapors from the rain. You quickly place them in your book chest. Breathing a sigh of relief, you take a seat in your bed, and begin to wait out the storm...

It takes far shorter than you expected; though you know not how long it is, in this foreign land without the tolling of church bells to tell you the time. Drying your feet with a cleaning cloth, you don your day clothes, and walk out of your tent, that you may see what damage this ghastly storm had wrought upon your camp. As you do so, one of your retinuemen, assigned to guard your camp, turns to you in surprise, approaching with a bow as he speaks.

"Your lordship, the Quartermaster has called for your presence in the command tent."

Provençal? If he has called for you, it must be an matter of duty. You nod to the man and go on to the command tent. As you enter, you find your quartermaster with a troubled look on his face. He turns to you.