i have no title for this but please enjoy a little oneshot of my ocs, whooo, yeaaahh, please be niceys sksjsk
He realizes about halfway down the main road that today might not be ideal for his plans. The wheels of the carriage roll sluggishly through the rain muddied ground, jostling it's lone occupant.
Sir Wolfgrim Magnus sits inside, gripping the torn cushions with sharp, agitated fingers- glaring at the outside world and especially the glorious morning sun.
Hundreds of people line the road, snaking all the way down to the towering castle rising above the quaint, brown houses. They stare openly into the spidery carriage with a combination of disgust and amusement, muttering among themselves as they shuffle ever forward.
Wolfgrim sneers at them for good measure, even as his body shrinks back into the shadows. He slaps a hand up to his chest, feeling the papers rustle inside his coat. A cruel smirk blooms upon his lips, and he smoothes down his mustache to regain some dignity.
Today is the day that he ruins the King.
A particularly violent smack of the wheel against a rock sends him almost tumbling to the front and he barks out a filthy curse, kicking out a foot to prevent his face from smashing into the seat opposite.
He rights himself with a growl, mood darkening further as he hears the drivers cackle inconspicuously.
Today, Wednesday, is public court. Usually he tries to schedule his audience with the King in a more private setting (not that an audience with His Majesty is ever truly exclusive) but his timing had run a bit askew this go around. He would wait another day, but the contents of the papers tucked into his breast are far too potent to be spared any patience upon.
So unfortunately, he will have to make do with a crowd. All the better, he muses as he gingerly smoothes out his coat. It'll fast track the gossip.
It's easy enough when he clambers out of the carriage some minutes later, only barely managing not to slip on the slickened ground, to make his way through the crowd. His height lends him the advantage to plot a path through the sea of people, and his status lends him the power to cut it.
He oils his way through the gathering pooled by the great oak doors leading into the castle proper, shying away from touching anybody too much. The combined stench of firesmoke and people assault his nose and he coughs indelicately.
Torches flicker and spark along the columns holding up the ornate ceiling, and another gathering of subjects stretch into the light.
Wolfgrim can see the distant figure of his King and he puffs up his chest. Time for action.
"Your Majesty!", he booms, thrilling as his voice soars over and smothers the din.
Dozens of eyes swivel around to stare at him as the voices sputter out and die. He rakes a confident hand through his hair, before sliding the papers out of his coat.
"I apologize for the interruption, Your Grace.", he begins, advancing to the front of the crowd, uncaring for the whispers floating around his head. "But I have a somewhat... delicate matter here which begs your immediate attention."
He feels the familiar cloak of hatred settle around him as he stalks along the great hall, loathing bubbling merrily away in the crucible of his chest. He snaps the heels of his shoes against the tile with every step, and keeps his eyes locked on target.
King Francis Godfrey II, greatest of his name. If it wouldn't ruin the energy he's bringing to the proceedings, Wolfgrim would spit.
His King is sat upon his throne (likely thing for him to be doing), vast body favouring the right side as he placidly watches Wolfgrim's approach. His Majesty wears a benevolent smirk, tucked under the great flap of his golden mustache, grey eyes crinkled at the edges. A massive hand rests gently upon the arm of his throne, and it flexes softly so show off the glint of his rings.
Wolfgrim only falters slightly in his step, but that's because he's too filled with loathing. And hatred.
He clears his throat once he's come within the King's sight, throwing an imperious little glance at a positively seething Lady Bartholomea, and opens his mouth.
But it is not his voice which fills the room, for the King speaks before him.
"Wolfgrim.", King Godfrey intones, almost slyly.
"What.", Wolfgrim snaps, somewhat flustered at the interruption, and a murmur rushes through the crowd.
The King does not answer with words, instead raising his hand and swirling his index finger in a sort of circular motion. Wolfgrim starts slightly at the sight of it, stomach dipping unpleasantly.
"Sire-?", he inquires, now thrown entirely out of his depth.
"Back to the line, Sir Wolfgrim. I'm afraid I cannot make exceptions, even for you."
"But- but sire-!"
The King holds up a palm and looks pointedly at him. Wolfgrim bristles viciously, casting a furious glance about the hall.
Damn the man to hell.
"Of course, Your Majesty. Your Majesty is the very soul of equity, I apologize for my thoughtlessness.", he hisses out, before bowing and turning on his heel.
It is lucky for Sir Wolfgrim that his King does not have the deplorable manner to subjugate him in the middle of court, but he sort of wishes His Majesty would just get it out of the way at this point. Shuffling to the back of the line he can feel indignation bloom its crimson mark upon his neck, and he doesn't know what's heavier- the stares of the peasants or the hot weight of his King's gaze on his back.
The bastard is probably still smiling.
No matter, he thinks to himself as he wedges in at the very back, unmooring a young couple who shoot him poisonous looks.
After all, how long will this actually take?
-
"Your Majesty must permit me an observation."
King Francis Godfrey II, greatest of his name, snorts inelegantly into his periodical.
"I have never, nor will ever, permit you anything, dear girl- I don't need to.", he snickers good-naturedly, bringing his tea up to sipping height.
Lady Bartholomea tips her head to the side to fix him with a stony glare, nimble fingers ceasing their embroidery work for a fleeting moment.
"It is the principal, Your Grace.", she says primly, coldly.
Godfrey's always felt decidely chilly in her presence, which is certainly welcome for a man of his size and general hot blooded nature. She is the perpetual frost to his forge, and he loves her dearly for it.
The sort of woman who secures the position of royal advisor and then does nothing particularly ambitious with the role. Godfrey likes to think it's because of her lifelong affection for him, but has the dreadful suspicion that it's because pulling off a coup would be too impolite for her tastes.
"Alright, I'll bite. What have I done?", he surrenders with only a hint of trepidation.
She deliberates for a second, her vicious tongue tucked firmly behind flattened lips as she take up her craft once more.
He chances that sip of tea, bracing himself.
"It is what you haven't done.", she finally settles on, her immaculately plucked eyebrow twitching for just a second.
Godfrey frowns.
"I thought we were rather on schedule."
"You were. I'm not talking about that."
A slight pause, broken only by the murmuring of the castle around them. Godfrey squints, and opens his mouth.
"Alright, then-"
"That infernal knight, Your Majesty."
"Ah."
"I should wonder why you've not stripped him off his title and thrown him to the mercy of the wilderness. I mean, the ruckus today alone! I can excuse his appearance here any other day- Your Majesty may permit who he likes- but barging into public court was too far!", Lady Bartholomea cries, voice sharpening with every exclamation as her needle stabs recklessly into the cloth. "And to accuse you of- of-! Well, you heard him."
Godfrey huffs, not unkindly, even as his teeth sink softly into the meat of his cheek.
Ah, Sir Wolfgrim. Godfrey rubs a hand over his mouth to scrub away at his smile.
He admits, it was something of a shock to have the normally reticient, shadowbound knight barge into a crowd to shout thinly veiled abuses at him. And yes, perhaps it did bring down the overall mood he was trying to inject for the morning- but Wolfgrim has that effect. Or at least he has whenever Godfrey's permitted audience with him.
The man has the uncanny ability to suck all the warmth from the room and convert it into something bitter and malicious, warping it to suit the forked edge of his silvery tongue. Even the way he addresses his King is thick and dripping with contempt, every line of his sharp, square shoulders drawn up in pride and disgust as he embarrasses himself on another ridiculous little scheme.
Its enough to drive a fellow mad.
Godfrey only just restrains a contented little growl in his chest. He's been told the noise is rather frightening.
"One might argue that public court is public for a reason.", Godfrey remembers to answer, shifting discreetly in his seat.
If Lady Bartholomea's gaze was stony before it's positively petrified now, a shard of glass pointed directly at him.
He takes another sip. Innocently.
"Why do you insist on keeping him about, sire. Nobody likes him."
"I like him!", Godfrey exclaims, setting his teacup down.
"Yes, but it's not about you!", Lady Bartholomea cries, exasperated, and Godfrey sighs.
"I know that, my dear, but permit me if you will, this one amusement. I promise I shall set him down very sternly and ensure he does not darken any public event ever again, if today's humiliation has not already succeeded in doing so.", he soothes, laying down his periodical to gaze deeply into her eyes.
She sags a little, a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth.
"You were very masterful this morning, I will give you that. I was very proud."
"Thank you, darling, that's all I ever want to hear from you."
"Mhm. But trust, sire, that if he kicks up another scandal, I will deal with him in my own capacity.", Lady Bartholomea sniffs, relaxing back into her chair.
Godfrey smiles tightly and nods, nausea and admiration fighting for their rights in his breast. Damn his judgement to become so very fond of possibly the two most ferocious people in the kingdom.
"I trust.", he concedes. "Can you squeeze out an hour for me to meet him?"
"Naturally. Shall I send him a warning of your arrival?"
Godfrey barks out a decidely unkingly laugh and sees her shrink back in the corner of his eye, unimpressed.
"No, no, not needed. I'm sure he knows I'm coming."
It's a lie, of course, he's never known Sir Wolfgrim to be aware of the great hand of consequence bearing down upon him before it's too late, but Godfrey is not going to pass up the opportunity to see the look on the man's face.
For the good of the kingdom.
-
Meanwhile, uttterly defeated and more than a little worse for wear, Sir Wolfgrim throws himself into his chambers. He makes a brief pass by the fireplace to cast the papers into the roaring flames, vowing to track down the bastard who'd sold them to him in the first place.
Embarrassment oozes along his skin and he practically sways under the potency of his anger. He should have known they weren't legitimate, he'd not exactly acquired them in any reputable place.
He breathes unevenly, pushing off the hearth to fling himself into his armchair. He sinks into the faded cushions, pauses for just a moment, before deflating fully with an almighty groan.
It rattles in his throat and almost graduates to a scream.
He opens his eyes with a start, and reaches for the sidetable, where a bottle of wine sits faithfully. He grimaces.
He despises wine.
It's only when he's halfway down the bottle that he relaxes his shoulders, pushing out a deep exhale. His stomach is swimming with nausea and something else he'll eject come bedtime. The beginning of a headache is throbbing in the back of his skull.
Business as usual. He'll get them next time.
