We are not traitors

The throne room, predictably, is like something out of a movie, all stone and sconces and heavy wooden furniture. There aren't many courtiers, fourteen or fifteen people arranged at their leisure, mostly men dressed in fur trimming and brocade but also a few women in colorful gowns with richly braided hair, all of them with ornate gems at their fingers and throats. The man up there in the chair that dominates the hall - King Mortaigne, someone said at one point - isn't tall, but he's solidly built, with a cloak of thick fur and an equally thick beard, a delicately jeweled gold band looking out of place on his head.

As he surveys the five of them - all in disarray, more than one of them bleeding - he doesn't look especially impressed. He casts glances at the knights who stand on either side of him, and the looks they give him couldn't possibly fill anyone with an abundance of confidence about their future.

"So," he says, steepling his fingers. "A fascinating selection of strangers to our realm. Making a fascinating variety of trouble. What have you all to say for yourselves?

There's a silence as they all look at each other. No one in the room looks like an executioner, but that isn't exactly reassuring.