There was no establishment in the west that existed quite like the Atheneum. The closest equivalent, perhaps, were the rows of bordellos that existed in every red-light district, but even those were poor comparisons. Here beautiful men and women satiate the minds of the intellectually inclined with lively debates, fine arts, scientific and arcane discourse, and aesthetics. Where courtesans are taught anywhere from dancing to music to philosophy. Where an intellectual connection could lead to, and most often did, a connection of the more carnal kind.
And Lady Yorah stood atop them all, as both the most sought after companion, and the successful entrepreneur who started the business in the first place.
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He’s the kingdom’s very own prince charming. Son of King Dantalion and his second wife Queen Adelaide, Charles succeeded where his sister did not. He was born with a remarkably high aptitude for magic and was praised as a prodigy since his childhood. Having rarely been disciplined/berated as a child, he’s grown up spoiled and arrogant, though, with his handsome looks and charming smile, most people merely brush it off.
His mother, proud of her offspring, pushed him to strive for excellence, giving Charles the goal to surpass his nigh-godly father. Charles admired his father since his childhood, having grown on the tales of the great Dantalion’s many exploits; though frequent embellishments and his obsession over myths and fables helped develop Charles’ rather romantic heart.
Over time, Charles began to lose interest in his gilded life. His father’s stoic demeanor soon began to drive a wedge between the duo, and along with his mother’s desire to control every aspect of his life, Charles became suffocated from his life in the palace. To take a break from his princely life, he frequently sneaks out of the palace with the help of his friend, Gwyn, a witch-in-training, to hit-up the town and spend time with his non-peerage nouveau riche friends.
(Excerpt and taglist below the cut)
They say there’s a deadman living in the castle now, and quite honestly, Charles is willing to believe them. It’s not that he’s the sort of person to believe in spirits and superstitions--really, all that stuff is nonsense people say to scare children--so the first few days of people talking about the deadborn was met with scoffs and rolled eyes.
Then Charles started noticing things.
Erthain palace held a separate wing for royal children and visiting royalty, and for most of his twelve years of existence, Charles was the sole occupant. Lonely though the existence was, it did provide him enough opportunities for a midday jaunt beyond the palace walls. It’s why he took note of the extra guards stationed in the wings or the two new maidservants milling about the halls. The maids--twins from the looks of it—always report to the chambers a couple of doors away from his, but whenever he’d ask about his new neighbor, they’d always give a vague answer.
“Our mistress resides there, your Highness,” one of them said with a demure curtsy. “She requested that we not discuss much of her character to others if they so ask. We do apologize.”
And wasn’t that a surprise. Charles was no stranger to refusal—interactions, or lack of, with his father enough times familiarized him with the feeling—but usually, servants would have the decency to look somewhat distressed when saying no royalty. He’d let them go on their way, of course. Rude and demanding nobles Charles was not.
Man. If there’s any character more difficult to write, it’s this disaster right here.
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