Trotting through the city gates, accompanied as always by Waery along with the rest of his regiment, the Royal Heir Prince P. Trubaldsome was immediately assailed by the stench of charred wood and smoke. A few scared, pale faces peered out from those buildings still standing, and a gloomy pall seemed to hang over the city.
Coughing and hacking, he hurriedly pressed a sweetly-scented cloth to his nose, his watering eyes narrowing as he surveyed his home. "Gah! What has happened?" Waery, riding beside Trubaldsome, kept a hand readily on his sword.
The party continued onwards down the main street, rubble littering it in places. Sighting a group of Elbrethian soldiers marching through the streets, Trubaldsome frowned.
"Certainly made themselves at home, I see..." He remarked through his handkerchief, then turned to Waery.
"Send one of the men ahead, one with a loud voice. Have him shout at these louts to make way for the rightful King of Miring!"
Waery nodded once, waved a hand fowards and said, "You there, Arnkes! Get yerself fowards an' let 'em know th' King is 'ere. Th' rightful King o' Miring an' all." The young, reserved soldier named Arnkes nodded and strode fowards.
Usually a fairly quiet man, in the few times Arnkes was angry about something his voice would shake the windows of whatever tavern/whorehouse he was in, and he put it to good use now, bellowing at anyone on the rode ahead as the regiment marched fowards towards the castle.
Head towards -my- castle to see what state it's in, soldiers armed and ready for any trouble. Have a soldier march ahead of the group shouting,
"Make way for the King! The rightful King of Miring! Make way! Way for the King!" And so on.