The King's Personal Chambers, Mid-Autumn...
The King was still in the midst of writing a letter (several balled up pieces of parchment littered the floor nearby) when Locanil was brought before him. Setting his quill down, Erik rose to turn and meet the Hatcuri, motioning to one of the chairs by the fireplace. "Thank you, Bjorn. That will be all for now, I should think." he stated, before turning to face Locanil.
"I am sure, the King began once the Steward had left, "that I am not catching you at an inconvenient time?" The question was more an order, though it was clear that Erik was at least trying to be polite despite the lines of worry on his brow. Still standing, Erik gazed up at the portrait over the fireplace, that of the former King and Queen, and then cut to the chase: "As you know, Elbrethian forces are currently at war with Preston. We have successfully secured Miring, though our numbers have been thinned and I shall not, cannot, dare to recruit what remaining men are of fighting age in our lands so close to the final harvest. I doubt we would be able to muster much more than a single regiment, in any case."
He clenched and unclenched his mangled hand, though the fist was weak, and then turned to look to the Hatcuri. "When you first came to me, you professed an...ability to commune with 'spirits', yes?"