The chattering in the halls surrounded Mobei-jun as he tuned out the various clansmen, very unsubtly vying for his very limited attention. He was not some lowly yanmen clerk, or forgotten desk-bound advisor. Valiantly ignoring such petty disputes is what he always did when he found himself surrounded by the barrage of infantile whining that undercut every complaint gone ignored.
Unfortunately, due to a certain missing presence, he had to at least *pretend* to have half an ear on whatever it is that the Duchess of the Carmine-Sea-Seraphs and the new Chieftain boy sent from the South were quibbling about now. Honestly, he could only guess at what incessant drivel they were attempting to bring to his attention, occasionally glancing upwards at his (hopefully) placid face.
The current procession was supposedly meant to celebrate the recent birth of a daughter among the leaders of the Hepatic-Scale-Geckos. The way it had been explained to him is that he was meant to socialize, as it would be quite insulting for him to not feign that the new child would be worthy as a potential bride for the North. If he did not attempt the charade of all the other party-goers (pretending such a historically hostile clan could ever be a worthy candidate for the North), the child may be shunned from high society. This would in turn disturb the delicate trade ecosystem, as they possess a natural, fast acting poison that acts as a binding agent for nearly all cloth the North uses, creating the renowned cold resistance the North’s textiles are known for.
This is ultimately unimportant.
Mobei-jun could not possibly care less about such matters if he tried. This information was forced upon him by the very man who convinced him that *socializing* of all things would be an apt use of his time.
This rat of a man did not even bother to show; to do his job, as he had promised he would. Mobei-jun had already done *his* job: show up and do *not* under *any circumstances*, call the child ugly. Or imply the clan’s objective inferiority. Or try to fight anyone who is important. Matter of fact, don’t fight *anyone*. (If you fight them, they’re bound to be *someone* important anyway.)
Ultimately, he had been abandoned by his most loyal advisor. Stranded in a sea of small-talk politicking.
There wasn’t even the courtesy of a battle present, as is tradition, as the child’s apparent constitution was lackluster. Qinghua had said so.
Moving away from the demons, he went unnoticed despite his frame, as the two demons were too engrossed in their own petty squabbling to try and pathetically chase his intervention (as they would no doubt do if he were to draw their attention). He took up residence in an unoccupied corner of the hall, only one other unremarkable demon having found such sanctuary before him.
If he were to say such a thing to his advisor, he’d likely be berated to the extent he’d forget his transgression not even half way through the rambly, only mildly intelligible lecture. (He was always big on knowing every demon’s status, no matter how much of unimport they may appear to be.)
He sighed heavily, a small part of him wishing he could indulge in at least the *alcoholic* festivities.
And so, he was left to idle, to entertain himself until the skittish man finally made his undoubtedly characteristic appearance. Speaking of servants, his eyes slowly drifted downward. Ah, Sharp Hallex. Judging by her bored disposition, she seemed to be in agreement that this ceremony was particularly dull without Shang Qinghua’s meddling. Sharp Hallex offered him a small glass of arkhi, as was her current designated duties. When he reluctantly took the glass from the offered tray, her wrinkled eyes subtly ticked upwards approvingly.
She studied his face intently for a couple ke, eyes squinting in suspicion, ”My Mobei-jun, why do you muse so? There are many beauties that would be happy to help loosen your tongue, in the ways that alcohol surely cannot.”
He stared at her. His expression slowly morphed into one of deadpan exasperation. She knew not to say such things, but the old demon was clearly unafraid of whatever his wrath might entail; and for that, he merely scoffed.
Her eyes brightened subtly, “Ahh, your right-hand, was it? I hear you beat him *thrice* a day, I’ve never considered you a romantic, Mobei,” she flipped her long, gray hair back with her unoccupied hand, “Why not simply go get him? Surely he is absent of his own volition, and you clearly do not want to be in such stuffy company anyway.” She suddenly moved forward, subtly crowding him with her scoliostic body, “Go on, get! Your scheming beau is in his private chambers,” and with that she promptly turned on her heel and fled. She traveled quite fast for a woman who had been nursemaid to four previous Mobei-juns. However, her ability to duck seamlessly into the crowd of lords and ladies was unsurprising given her hunched stature and relatively lithe frame.
Idling for a few more ke, he sipped slowly from his offered drink. As expected, it was acceptable, though he again wished that such indulgences could truly provide him with the jovial relaxation it seemed to readily grant lesser demons. He glanced over to the red-skinned demon staring longingly at a particularly stuffy looking crowd of nobles. I offered them my drink, and they shyly accepted. That should help any inferiority complex that Qinghua so commonly accuses of these types.
Accepting his maternally accused love-sickness, he slinked towards the massive doors leading out into the entrance hall. He ignores the sprawling, carpeted room, glancing idly at the trophies that have always been displayed. Moving away from the brightly lit commotion in the occupied hall, it was the same familiarly dark and cold atmosphere characteristic of the Northern Palace. He strode down the left hall, he takes the subconsciously ingrained route to his own royal chambers. He climbed, as he did every night. He passed by the typical assortment of rooms, mostly abandoned. He did not have any concubines to occupy them.
As he approached his own chambers, he reflexively reached for the door next to the chambers’ grand entrance. He caught himself before he could thoughtlessly yank open the comparatively delicate door, finally noticing the subtle light cast from beneath, falling onto the contours of his boots. He hesitated, despite his suffocating grip on the ordinarily ornate handle. Composing himself with a deep, silent breath, he pushed open the door.
As always, he expected to hear a familiar creak. It did not come. The marital chambers had not creaked since the introduction of Shang Qinghua to the living space. He schooled his face back into his neutral, stony expression, shaking off the unconscious startle.
The source of the creeping light became apparent as the door cracked, and finally swung open silently. His footfalls into the dimly lit room were surprisingly nimble, though the eerie echo from the foreboding hallway initially continued, until he hit Qinghua’s large rug covering almost all the marble floor.
Like many of Qinghua’s actions, it was quite bizarre initially. And like many other explanations for Qinghua’s strange habits, it was because he was human. As every other time he was questioned (no matter how non-threateningly), he blustered, fumbled, and anxiously reassured Mobei-jun that it was not an insult to the beauty of his palace’s marble, but a failure of his own body not being accustomed to kneeling on the freezing floors for days on end.
His eyes adjusted to the light, pupils shrinking to accommodate the suddenly revealed lambency. He could make out the figure of Shang Qinghua, presumably hunched over his desk. Working endlessly, regardless if it is assigned to him or not. He is much like the prairie dogs used in the paddocks of Wrought-Emerald-Pixiu, harvested in the East.
As he approached, he expected that familiar startle, or frazzled “My King!” regardless of if his presence was already anticipated. When there was no visible reaction, he was pleasantly shocked that he must be writing, as he so rarely does these days. As he used to when they were younger.
However, as he slank beside him (at a respectable few chi, as had been stressed to him early on in his relationship with the cultivator), he found no parchment nor writing tools. Just two empty bottles. He glanced at Qinghua’s side profile, though much wasn’t visible, he could’ve sworn there was a third, half-drained one clutched in his fist.
Peering over his stocky, slouched shoulders, he could see a visible flush on his face. The warm, vibrant red greatly contrasted Qinghua’s usual pale complexion. In fact-
Qinghua’s head suddenly jerks in his direction, almost knocking against his skull if not due to his quick reflexes. “Ah! M’ King!” He rubbed his neck, either out of embarrassment or due to temperature was unclear. He could very well have breathed his colder breath onto his neck, alerting him to his presence, but who’s to say?
Qinghua’s face gradually split into a rare smile. Not one of his anxious niceties, his cunning grin, or even his charming, sleezy, self-satisfied smirk. Just a genuine; if not tired, smile.
Now that he can better observe his face, he can see that there seems to be an especially concentrated redness right below his eyes, a few shades darker than the fetching flush present on his plush cheeks.
The red-rimmedness doesn’t go away, even as Qinghua tries to inconspicuously scrub at his lidded eyes; in fact, it only makes it worse, peeling a bit of the skin covering his non-existent cheekbones. It must be because of the dryness of the North. He remembers him specifically mentioning it happens particularly on his hands and feet.
Slurring his already mumbled words he greets, ”’llo ‘m king. I uhh- ‘m busy, can you um, leave? …*please*?,” he casts his red-rimmed eyes upwards, where Mobei-jun still hovers bodily over his shoulder, not having backed up even a cun since he almost got a startled elbow to the nose. He notes the scratchiness of his throat, as if he had worn it to disuse. Perhaps it was from ranting frustratedly about the party-goers, as he has this endearing habit of getting mad on Mobei-jun’s behalf.
Alarmingly, his eyes seem to mist over and tears steadily begin to accumulate at the edges of his inflamed ducts. This is not all that disturbing, as for Qinghua’s propensity to burst into exaggeratedly theatric sobs, especially when it came to His King.
However, the most disquieting part of Qinghua’s seemingly private spectacle is this: it does not seem this is a performance. It is not a show. Thick tears and even thicker snot is continuously rolling down his advisor’s face as he valiantly attempts to sniffle and rub away the evidence of his drunken vulnerability.
Current word count: 1,820
