The knight stands at the entrance to the tailor shop, just enough so they're inside, but not blocking the door. They seem to press their armored arms tightly against their sides, clutching a paper scroll in one of their gauntlets. "Excuse me, Magistrate," they say, voice muffled under their helm. "Another arrest warrant was accepted by us knights, if you could have a look—?" "Please, I have a name, you know." The magistrate runs his fingers lightly over his brown hair, brushing it back, his green eyes flicking to the knight and back to the mirror one of the tailors is holding for him. "It's Matieu Leon Rosenor. No need to call me 'Magistrate'." "Oh, o–of course! Mr. Rosenor. I remember your name, apologies, I just—um. The arrest warrant, sir?" "Mm. Was it sent by Herriet again?" "Uh, yes, sir." "Then, no. Decline." The knight bows. "Yes, sir." "What was your name?" Matieu asks the knight as they turn to go. "Uh. Rowan, sir." "Don't call me sir anymore, Rowan. Call me Leon. That's all. Goodbye." He straightens. "Oh, wait—my mistake, there is one other thing I must ask of you knights…" ~ "An owl hoots down the well-kept path, "A wake, and a beginning. "Come to the lake where it flows, "To a soft and gentle spring." Before he can continue the soft, slow singing, someone steps up to him. The woman's fists are clenched, face tight with anger, brown eyes burning. She points an accusing (ha) finger at him. "You!" she hisses. "I'm Magistrate Matieu Leon Rosenor," Matieu says smoothly, putting down his lute. "Not 'you'. Hello, Herriet." "I've asked several times for that greedy woman to be arrested! Her name is Dyn, like I said in my arrest warrants!" Her fists tremble. "I gave solid reasons in each warrant! She's threatened my family more than once, and even the monarch! She threatened to kill them! Please, do it for my family!" Matieu resists rolling his eyes—barely. "Your reason changed in each warrant. I couldn't trust your words by the third one, let alone the fifth. The knights have spoken with me about you and your fellow servants, and there is no proof to justify locking away Dyn, who's a steadfast, hardworking, diligent castle worker." He shrugs elegantly. "You simply want to start things between you and the other servants, is that it?" She doesn't speak, her eyes now cast down to her shoes instead of glowering at him. Every bit of her is still tense, though. Matieu begins strumming his lute again. "I could have you arrested instead. I could even have you released from your position if I wanted; I can speak freely to the royals, you know." His voice is gentle, smooth, almost sly. "But I won't." The song speeds up, then slows down. "You must be tired." "Tired of Dyn stealing the cakes I was going to make—" "Tired of being angry at Dyn, and at me, and the good knights who are also tired." A soft song mellows the air, burbling out of Matieu's lute like a light spring of water. "You're unfair," Herriet whispers, her shoulders slumping at last. "On the contrary, I have to be fair," he replies, slowing his lute playing until he stops. "You know this. It's simply my work." She crosses her arms and turns away. "Fine. I am tired. You win! I'll go make up with Dyn now." She starts to trudge away, then stops, and turns. "I think it's quite stupid that a bard could become the magistrate, of all things. Just saying." "Really? I don't." Matieu smiles and winks at her. "I'm fabulous either way!" She practically growls before stomping off toward the castle. "An owl hoots down the well-kept path," Matieu sings slow and clear, sending the soothing melody with her. "A wake, and a beginning. "Come to the lake where it flows, "To a soft and gentle spring. "When your soul is slowly wanting, "The cloth of a fine bed, "Come to the lake where the tails sing, "And rest your weary head."

Winter is an unforgivable time of the year. Even when it isn't snowing, the sun doesn't seem to reach the tallest spire of the castle. That's not why I turn my back on it, though; I head toward the castle gates with a sureness in my steps because I know I am not needed here. The monarch of Aelwynd is holding a church mass. I walk through the fine snow blanketing the ground, right past the door of the church, on my way into Aelwynd's town. Inside the church, my fellow priests would be healing and blessing the throng of visitors, including the monarch themself. We just survived a bandit raid. They happen uncommonly in Aelwynd, even in the dead of winter when hardly a knight can be seen outside. I shouldn't be out right now, either; after finishing off most of the bandits and chasing the rest away, the knights are huddling inside the church like many others, awaiting healing. Yet I continue on, leaving a trail behind me, my priestly robe dusted in white. The castle gates are not warm. Torches glow nearby, yes, but no one is there. The bridge stretches ahead of me over the frosted river like a bleak, still carcass that splashed into the water and never got up again. Beyond, a snowy forest sits like a heap of fine ash after a fire. Nothing suggests someone survived out there. The bandits often come from this direction. I step onto the bridge. In the forest, chills rattle through me. Not a soul seems to stir. And there's something staining the white underfoot. Blood. Remnants of the bandits' attack here, before they charged to the castle. I don't care when it stains my shoes and robes. Then I hear sobbing, shaky pleas for help. It echoes over the snow. I follow the sounds to find a peasant crouched over their friend. "PRIEST," they shout as soon as they see me, twitching but not getting up for fear of leaving the other to die. Their breath mists just above the body's pale face. "HEAL THEM!" I immediately oblige, pulling out my priest book and praying over their fallen friend. A prayer for healing, and one for fortune. The peasants are freezing, I notice. After the second gets up, leaning against the first, I instruct them to hold torches as often as possible, and stay inside their shelters if they have any. "Or come to the castle town and church," I say. "There is always a bed for you there." I move on while they thank me profusely. I find more peasants scattered in the forest, freezing, or injured from the bandits, or both. They all accept my help. Some cry fresh tears because of me. Some peasants I don't get to in time. Still, the way back to the church is a long, contemplative, warm one. Snow, dirt, blood, and tears coat the hem of my priestly robes, and I simply pay no mind to it at the moment, even if other people stare. I forget the chill of winter when I help others in need.

"Writing gets to be really, really hard sometimes," the jester sighs. They pick up one of the strawberries I'm going to prepare, tossing it from hand to hand, then just catching it in one hand. "Sometimes," they continue before I can say anything, "I think about quitting. ME! One who never quits!" The bells on their hat ring indignantly. I gesture for the strawberry they're holding, and they give it to me so I can mash it into the rest of the strawberry extract I'm making. "I'm only a fool with too many thoughts in my foolish head," they say, "so I must get them out of there somehow! Why not on paper, as well as with my voice?!" I pour the sweet liquid into the cake mixture in front of me and stir steadily, calmly. The jester sits on the counter behind me. If Chef Jaimes was here, he would shoo them away. I think that's why the jester came now, though they often come to talk to me, for some reason. "And yet," the jester says with a more dramatic sigh, "here I am, contemplating eating my words." They take out a piece of paper from seemingly nowhere, looking wistfully over the elegant handwriting on it, before bringing it to their mouth. I turn around all the way, startled, then relax as those silly bells jingle. The jester laughs, snorting. "Your FACE!" they guffaw, and grin at me. "I finally got you."

You aren't as lonely as you may believe!! This kingdom thrives when you remember that there is a bed for you in one of these buildings, that you have a torch to light your way, and there are people you can help or be helped by!!

:D

it's ok to ask for help - mara and rayne you are not a burden - jackson free will is a false dream and you have no control over your life whatsoever - elliot your feelings matter - pepper

Dexter: "..." (close to tears) "Th--Thank you."

"STUFFFINGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!"