Riddle say by himself, on a haystack near the path that led to the Waters of Forgetfulness. He heard the celebration in the castle, which had been running for over a week now. Word had it the army of the 10K had been sighted only three furlongs away.
Periodically, Riddle would look up as another drunken celebrant fell from the ramparts and landed with a loud splash in the moat below. But he did not smile. Alas, he was brooding over the loss of Deniala to the Dark Slovenian Prince only two days ago. To make matters worse, he'd just had a disturbing encounter with the Bishop. Apparently, everything that had happened recently had done nothing to secure freedom for the serfs of the manor. The Bishop and the king had grown fatter than ever. Riddle looked the case of fine wine the Bishop had just given hm. It had not been the outcome he hoped for.
He mused on the current problem. How could the serfs break free, and make a life for themselves far from the chains of drudgery, pumpery, and the rank smell of molding hay?
Then he had a thought. Quietly he arose, and set off down the path to find the Oracle of the Sarcophagus.
