TIMESTAMP : late afternoon , in the days following the assassination attempt . LOCATION : winterfell , near the guest apartments . TAGGING : @vincitomnic .
nothing , nothing , about eliar umber leant itself to stealth . neither in form , nor in practice ; he’s heavy footsteps and and brash words entwined in irreverence that just sneaks by during formal events for the sake of the last name he carries , aided by the endearing quality he’s possessed since he was younger . yet , despite these truths , he’s making an attempt . bow string has been pulled back and is threatening to break or injure , a tension rising inside him . he’s looking for something that the inquisitors didn’t find .
he believes in stories , has found comfort in them for most of his life , and perhaps that’s why he believes this ill convinced venture , this scheme produced on frustration and lack of sleep , will bear fruit ; in stories , the hero is gifted for his risks with convenience / if this was a story , he’d hear a confession within an hour of lingering outside doors of apartments for southron guests . instead , he’s mostly heard muffled conversations , two discussions about the weather , and one argument about a stained piece of fabric . enlightening .
eliar sighs , closing his eyes for a moment as he leans near a door when he hears footsteps and stands up , stepping away from the wall . his face bears little reaction , trying to avoid any questioning — at least , until he realizes who it is .
' what are you doing ? ’ it’s a whisper in timbre , but loud enough for her to hear before she moves closer . brow creases slightly , as if she’s the offending one — interfering with his attempts .