#shadowrcith

Another day had come and gone, and Kithri had retained her freedom in the King’s court. Or at the very least, the version of freedom she held onto as one of the King’s favored trained dogs -- permitted to move about the castle as she pleased, and yet wary to leave the grounds for favor of the city below.

Though she had not been arrested and charged with the assassination attempt, she was nonetheless wise to the accusatory glances and suspicion-filled whispers which clung to her like a second skin. Valeria’s suggestion that the mage avoid unnecessary movement and call upon her allies was not baseless, even if Kithri had chosen to ignore the caution. In the mind of the inferni mage, if she remained hidden in her chambers it would signal to the court that she was fearful -- and in her opinion, fear indicated guilt. 

Despite this, Kithri also knew that in the absence of a caught assassin, the blame would undoubtedly be shifted to her. The nature of the attempt made it all too easy to point to her without the burden of evidence -- and she doubted the ability of any would-be ally to save her from death. Her survival rested upon another falling victim to the executioner’s sword.

The mage had never much been in the business of gossip, but she knew the kitchen and it’s hearth to be the source of it in the castle. If there was some whisper of another wanting to see the King dead, it was likely to be heard there of all places. With little other recourse, Kithri made the journey and perched herself close to the roaring fire: any onlooker who drew too close would note the way the flames seemed to gravitate towards her with an undoubted magnetism.

She had not lingered for long when she caught sight of the King’s spymaster drift through the space: the sight of them caused a lurch in her gut, and the fire beside her briefly engorged before settling. Of any, Kithri expected Wraith to have some knowledge of the investigation and any additional suspects thought to be involved in the attempted assassination. Their willingness to provide any of the information they had was another issue entirely -- but Kithri could not allow the opportunity to fade without any attempt.

“Wraith,” she greeted -- more familiar than she cared to be with most, and more familiar than the dynamic between them would suggest. And yet, there was an inherent familiarity to them as beings who had outlived their stories. “I am surprised the King would allow his confidantes to drift so far from his side.”

Castle Tyrholm’s library is as vast as it is old. The first time Francis laid eyes upon it, they stood, stock-still in the doorway, in utter awe, its collection rivaling that of the Temple’s. The King’s disdain for knowledge has not seemed to make its way to the library quite yet. Francis has lived in the Castle for the better part of their life, and they have not even read the spines of every book that sits inside it.

Francis is looking for something. A Book of Undeath far older than they, that Francis has only ever heard tale of. If it is to exist in Tyrholm, they think it would be here. They walk through the library, their feet light on the carpet, meticulously searching each book on the shelves. They have had no luck when Wraith appears, materializing in the room like a shadow rising up from the floor.

Francis frowns.

“Wraith,” they say, nodding in greeting. It is out of obligation far more than friendliness, and they promptly turn back to the shelf before them, still in pursuit of the book.

There are only so many pieces of poetry one man can write about horses before it all begins to blend into one large, amalgamous mass of incomprehensibility. Something something hair, something something marking, something something thunderous beasts, hooves, manes, and so on and so forth until the end of time. The stables, as a result, are not the best place to brainstorm pieces for composition, but Armel gives it his best go anyways. Why not settle down among hay and horseshit and feed and hope for the best? It doesn’t work, but... he’s trying.

The stables also happen to be one of the few places in Castle Tyrholm that the guardsmen tend to avoid. There are some nippy beasts of burden in here, to say the very least, and something about the shiny metal must be enticing. His eyes turn up, trying to conjure up a metapohor, away from the dapple-grey stallion munching on oats from inside a bag of feed -- and oh, joy of joys, look who it is. None other than Wraith, one of his current pursuant focuses. He’s been after them for no small amount of time, some years, in fact, and each and every time has been pushed to the side like fodder.

Not today, Armel decides. Definitely not today. Here, among the horses, they’ll have a discussion. Just one story is all he wants, and then he’ll be out of Wraith’s hair. Long, black hair, like silk, newly woven, yes, that’s something to write down--

He tends, unfortunately, to show up like a bad copper. Or that’s what he’s been told, at least. Like he’s been summoned up from nowhere at the worst possible time to stick his head directly where it shouldn’t be. It’s his favorite part of existing, really: getting in the way. Nothing feels better than to know he’s underfoot in as many ways as one can be. Truly. It gets him feeling all warm-and-fuzzy on the inside. He tucks away his pen and notepad into the small satchel strapped around his waist, slings it to the side, and stands. They don’t look much in the mood for conversation, but frankly, in Armel’s most humble opinion, they never do, and so he doesn’t find himself particularly daunted. He clears his throat as they come closer: “Wraith! So good to see you. Enjoying the day?”

They are quiet as they listen, eyes straight ahead and watching the sea. Wraith speaks the same thing they feel. For whatever crown has been put on their head and the honor bestowed upon their name, they have not been spared. Valeria has been touched by the king’s cruelty and favor, both. “What have you survived, Wraith?” They look to them now with an uncharacteristically gentle gaze. “Let us exchange one story for a story.”