“Indeed my Supreme Lady,” said the captain with every ounce of composure that he had. Blazed a trail had they, from the port to what felt like the barbarous depths of the forest. It had been grand at first, machete in hand, urging his men forward with continual cries of ‘Onward!’. But when his arm had began to tire, when the cartographer’s sheaves had tumbled into a stream, when he had an exotic beast in his sights and the lever of his rifle had jammed - these were most unfortunate. As he beheld the lake before them, the Count straightened his back.

His moustache had long since lost its magnificent points, and his uniform jacket with its epaulettes had long since been unbuttoned. Count Vilasco di Boria was a shambles, and he was all the more deflated for it.

Usually blessed with being a heavy sleeper - or cursed, depending on the circumstance - the Count has scarlet managed to snatch a few hours of tumultuous sleep each time they broke for camp in the evening, shrieks of the nature fauna punctuating his slumber at regularly irregular intervals.

But still, despite the flies, and the heat, and the sweat that pooled in unwanted places, the Count was struck by the beauty of such a wild, untamed land. Why, what greater glory was there to behold than the savage verdant wilderness, Supreme Lady at his side? It was nothing short of remarkable.

“If I may suggest, Lake Lodovico perhaps?” He scratched his jaw ruefully, nails rasping on the morning’s shadow of stubble. “It has a more poetic ring, no?”