setting: catching up and observing servants featuring: byron & isolde @sitzmarks
The lady of Minolith Manor was a capricious one, to say the least. The florals and the extravagance and all things light and bright were -not - just - of little interest to the Braxigarian, but of a matter of personal disdain. He’d grown so long in the dark that he was accustomed to it, in lands more attuned to rot than sunlight, with trees like spindly fingers that reached for the necks of children caught afoul and scratched at the wrinkles of Byron’s nightmares. There was said to be an arrangement of some kind, that the impending disinterest of his wedding would herald some necessity for florals but in Solkarith and Lumien Keep, flowers had a habit of wilting rather quickly.
All this to say that the Lady’s most outward disposition had never been of interest to Byron, but rather what he’d long suspected of his senior contemporary. These Hollow gatherings bred a sort of necessity to occasional proximity and while the warrior wasn’t one to wag his tongue or crane his ear to the ruminations of court gossip, Byron had a keen eye. Covered arms, odd complexions, eccentricities to match that were inevitably tampered down when Lady Kelindorr assumed her place at the head of her house. A position that the Solkarith heir would inevitably find himself in as well.
There was nothing to resent about his place in this world, he along with so many others were born into a realm of darkness by virtue of seeming-chance; births were low and the state of order necessitated generational lines. Heirs. Rules. Upkeep. Someone needed to swing the sword, someone needed to rule, and it wasn’t self-aggrandizing of Byron to say that to hold Lumien Keep and to keep their pact with House Althyran, there were no more suited to the task than he. It was what he’d been raised for.
“These festivities feel more ominous now,” Byron commented with passive interest, deceptively warm eyes -not - yet - struck - cold, washed over the servants as they muddled about with their preparations and affairs. “Well met, Lady Kelindorr.” Friends would always be a stretch for the Braxigarian to use, friendly acquaintance was the mountain top.