#{seliph.}

Nonverbal Starters || {Accepting!}

     To say that this is the life the archbishop has long envisioned would be a lie. With the terrifying amount of power and influence the Loptous Sect held not too long ago, Saias had buried any hope of peace returning to the continent– that the emperor he now serves, Lord Seliph, would somehow find a way to fell that cursed dragon, and in turn his own half-brother. The position he now holds is not an unfamiliar one– in truth, he had held a similar one during most of his father’s reign–, and yet, it still feels so strange to him. He serves not a tyrant, nor a man who thought the ends justified the means, but instead Seliph, the one who felled most of his remaining family, and the son of the man Arvis killed in cold blood. By all means, one would expect Saias to loathe the boy, and secretly plot his demise, but not an ounce of hatred resides in his heart. How could he harbour such ill feelings in the first place? The young king is the sole reason they no longer live in fear of Loptous, and he has shown him nothing akin to aggression thus far. More than that– they are cousins by blood; family.     One of the four members left, not including himself.

     When a gloved hand grasping onto a few, loosely bound sheets of paper enters his vision, the archbishop dares to lift his gaze from the cover of a certain tome sitting at the corner of his desk. Of course, he has long grown used to the king approaching him, be it to hand over documents or simply talk, and so a gentle look settles on Saias’ features the moment that his eyes fall upon the other’s own. 

          “Thank you, Lord Seliph. Do you wish for me to read it now, or is it not that dire?”

     His usual response as he takes the papers from the king’s hands, though it has become remarkably warmer and more relaxed than it had been months ago. The upper portion of his body turns so that he can properly face Seliph, and though a smile does not cross onto his features, the corners of pale lips almost seem to twitch upwards for a brief second.

Seliph

          “Lord Seliph,”

     His words are gentle, accompanying themselves with a bow from waist as the archbishop stands before the new ruler of Grannvale-- a man who the tales describe to be kind and almost saint-like; someone Saias has no reason to act anything but courteous towards. To say that the last few months have not been taxing on the continent would be naught but a massive understatement, for so many places-- the duchy that the young man has inherited, too--, have been left as mere shadows of their former selves, desperately needing restoration. Perhaps, the tactician thinks as blue eyes move back to focus on the other’s visage, Seliph has called him here so that they might negotiate trade, or to request help from himself in regards to the rebuilding of the boy’s new kingdom-- the letter he received had been far too vague in its intention. After all, his lineage should be clear, so why would the younger male ever want call upon him? Is there not a substantial amount of distrust that pools in the boy’s heart at the mere mention of the archbishop’s name?      Unable to find the answers to his own plethora of questions, a single, pale hand tightens its grip on an ornate staff, and Saias forces himself to speak up once more.