As Julien stepped into the armory, his expectations were precisely met: The room was a perfect reflection of Mataplana Castle's faded glory – rows of weaponry and armor, each piece bearing the marks of time. Dust layered the surfaces, and rust marred the once-formidable tools of war. Despite their current condition, however, it was evident that these arms had once been of commendable quality.

Julien scanned the armory with a critical eye, assessing the viability of the equipment according to his own set of skills. Each piece seemed to tell a story of battles long past, of warriors who once wielded them in the heat of combat, but now they stood there, as silent witnesses.
"I absolutely hate to be an annoyance, Julien Mazars," Arnau interjected, his voice tinged with urgency, "but we must make haste. I have a good feeling about this hunt, and timing is crucial."

Amidst the array of aged weaponry and armor, Julien found himself momentarily overwhelmed by the choices. In contrast, Arnau moved with decisive familiarity, selecting his armor as if reuniting with an old friend: He donned a mail hauberk, its metal links worn but intricately crafted, over his regular clothing; He added a pair of simple greaves and gauntlets, completing his ensemble with a tri-colored surcoat adorned in red, yellow, and white. "Gules, two-headed eagle displayed Or, an inescutcheon Argent," Arnau recited, glancing down at his surcoat with a hint of pride. "You're familiar with heraldic terms, aren't you, Julien?"

Julien's knowledge of heraldry was more than just passing, and he quickly decoded Arnau's description: a red shield featuring a golden two-headed eagle, wings spread, clutching a smaller white shield. Yet, as Julien reached for a hauberk for himself and Robert, he couldn't help but notice a discrepancy: The pattern on Arnau's surcoat didn't match the heraldic description he had given at all; The subtle inconsistency piqued Julien's curiosity.

Arnau paused as he adjusted the surcoat, his gaze momentarily distant. "That design represents the coat of arms of my family," he revealed, a touch of nostalgia coloring his voice. "But the life of an Enochian is one that demands discretion. I can't exactly parade around heralding my lineage," he said, a wry smile playing on his lips. "There are few who know of my true nature, and I intend to keep it that way. Wearing these colors, though, is my way of staying connected to my roots, my heritage."

Julien silently listened and took Arnau's lead, selecting greaves and gauntlets that mirrored those chosen by the count. He methodically equipped both himself and Robert, ensuring each piece was properly fitted. As he perused the helmets, however, Julien couldn't help but notice the striking differences from what he was accustomed to: The helmets he knew well were of Norman design, with their distinct conical shape and pronounced nasal guards, reinforced with metal bands. In contrast, the helmets before him, while also conical, were more elongated, featuring subtler nasal guards and adorned with smaller, more intricate decorations.

"I like to think that we incorporate the finest elements of Moorish smithery into our own craft," Arnau remarked, noticing Julien's curious gaze. He picked up one such helmet, placing it upon his head with a sense of familiarity: "These helmets are just the beginning. The further south you travel, the more diverse and distinct the designs become."

Julien held one of the helmets, and its design was reminiscent of those worn by adversaries he had faced seven years prior: The irony of now donning a similar helm was not lost on him.

His attention then turned to the swords: While the blades themselves didn't differ significantly from what he was accustomed to, the hilts bore unique geometric patterns, a subtle distinction, probably due to regional styles. However, it was the shields that truly caught his eye; Unlike the familiar kite-shaped shields of Francia, these were strikingly round, composed of leather, wood, and metal, but in a form that felt foreign to Julien's hands.

"Are there any shields that aren't so... circular?" Julien asked, scanning the armory for something more familiar.

"Wear a round one, and get used to them as well," Arnau advised, fully clad in his armor. "You are in Iberia now, Julien Mazars. It's wise to become accustomed to our equipment."

Julien hefted one of the round shields, feeling its weight and balance. Though it was different from what he was used to, he recognized the necessity of adapting to the tools of this land. The buckler, with its distinct shape, was a challenge he was determined to meet.

Fully armored, Julien and the animated corpse accompanied Arnau to the stable nestled within the yard. There, amidst the dim lighting and the scent of hay and horse, stood the unassuming horse they had ridden before. Beside it was a striking contrast — a large, restless black horse adorned in simple but functional barding, its coat mirroring the dark night outside; The horse's trappings bore the colors of Arnau's house.

"Julien Mazars, Count Robert, this is Tempestuós," Arnau introduced, his hand gently stroking the horse's snout, a gesture of familiarity and respect. The horse nickered softly, acknowledging the presence of its master. "I wish we had time for proper introductions, but our schedule is tight," Arnau added, a hint of regret in his voice.

Without further delay, Arnau mounted Tempestuós in a single, graceful motion, a display of his adept horsemanship. "Follow me," he instructed, his tone now all business.

Julien swiftly mounted his horse, mirroring Arnau's decisive action. With his mind, he commanded Robert to do the same. The animated corpse complied, its movements quite precise despite its lifeless state. Together, they set off after Arnau, the pace steadily quickening as they exited the stable and galloped into the open night.

The rhythm of hooves against the earth filled the air as Julien urged his horse to catch up with Tempestuós's swift trot. Pulling alongside Arnau, Julien called out over the wind, "where are we headed, exactly?"

Arnau glanced over with a knowing smile, "we're riding to a small town called Pratdip," he revealed, the clatter of hooves punctuating his words, "I hope you don't mind a brief departure from our beloved Marca Hispanica. Our journey takes us just across the border into the Taifa of Zaragoza tonight."

The mention of Zaragoza stirred a tumult of memories within Julien. The tragic events of seven years ago, when soldiers from Zaragoza had brutally clashed with their host, weighed heavily on his mind. The haunting recollection of the massacre, where he had narrowly escaped death and where Count Robert had not been so fortunate, filled him with an unexpected dread he was not quite ready to relive. Even Robert, seated lifelessly behind him, seemed to sway unsteadily on the horse, as if also affected by the surge of painful memories.

As they rode further from the familiar confines of Mataplana, however, Julien's attention shifted to the surrounding landscape; The night unfolded around Julien in a truly mesmerizing sight: Stars peppered the sky, and a shiny full moon bathed the fields in a serene silver light. Despite the tranquility of the natural scene, an inexplicable sense of foreboding hung in the air, as tangible as the cool night breeze.

Julien felt an unsettling sensation, almost as if unseen entities were observing their passage through the landscape. Each glance over his shoulder brought him face to face with nothing but the darkness that trailed behind them; It was a stark contrast to the celestial serenity above. This unsettling feeling seemed to grow denser with each mile they traversed away from the safety of the castle.

Feeling overwhelmed by this oppressive atmosphere, Julien sought insight from Arnau: "What is this odd, heavy feeling that hangs over us?" he asked, his voice echoing his inner turmoil.

Arnau grinned. "To my left I see a thousand demons. To my right I see ten thousand more. Blessed are the men without sight, for they do not see the infestation around them." With a hint of solemnity as he recited the words, his voice echoed in the stillness of the night.

He then turned to Julien, his gaze piercing in the moonlight. "That was King Solomon for you, my friend, I assume you recognize the name. He was one of the most powerful and prestigious Enochians of all time. You are now cursed with sight," Arnau said, the weight of his words palpable. After a brief pause, he inhaled deeply, as if bracing himself against an unseen force: "Witness the infestation around you."