The day after the Conclave's final, grim pronouncement, the great exodus began. The atmosphere of the valley was no longer one of political maneuvering and drunken parties; it was one of fear, of hasty departures and anxious glances at the sky.
Alaric's caravan was massive. It dwarfed the one he had arrived with. It was a long, black snake of reinforced war-carriages, disciplined Jorailian soldiers, and now, a second, gaudier tail of Strathmore banners, guards, and wagons. It was a victory procession.
He had his core delegation, of course. Queen Ondine, Priscilla, and Zylle, riding in their own opulent, heavily-warded carriage, a fortress on wheels.
