The chamber was a testament to grandeur, all obsidian angles and flickering cold fire, but Andrealphus cut through it like a blade of ice through velvet. Cloaked in layered silks of glacial blue and white gold, his steps echoed with purpose—not fury, no, never fury. Fury was for those who had lost control. This was indignation refined into something elegant.
He paused before the throne, the air growing notably colder around him as he raised his chin just slightly—never so much that it could be called defiant. Just enough to remind those present who he was.
“Paimon,” he said, voice like glass—fragile only in the way it could slice. “There were many to bear witness when I was granted the title. A title I secured lawfully. Yet I wake to find it... gifted elsewhere. Quietly. Curiously. To Pruflas, of all things.” His smile flickered, tight and brittle. “A name I had to say twice to recall. So. I requested this audience not to rage or beg—how dreadfully plebeian—but because I am owed clarity. And I do not enjoy being kept in the dark… especially by those who once claimed to deal in fairness.”
He folded his hands before him, a picture of composure—but his eyes told another story. This was not a request. It was a cold war in brocade.
“Shall we discuss?”
@marquis-andrealphus
Paimon stands up from his throne, taking his avian form in the presence of Andrealphus. Squinting his eyes, he regards the marquis with nothing more than a slight curiosity.
Ah, Marquis Andrealphus! The brother of my son’s wife! Well, ex-wife now, I suppose.
Yes, I remember! I had my butler pencil it for this time today — he’s been slacking lately on his duties but don’t tell him I said that.
He says as the butler is within earshot of him.
But anyway! Clarity! Right! Let’s get down to business! -✨🦉
