#veltomer

“Please. Right now it’s just my loser brother following me.”

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                   As duke of the Duchy of Velthomer, right hand to Azmur, the king of Grannvale, knight-captain of the Weissritter royal guard, leader of the Roten Ritter mage fighters and inheritor of Fjalar’s major blood and the holy fire tome of Valflame, Arvis cut an imposing figure despite his relatively lithe body and the soft curves to his face, eyes and hair. He was less than half the age of every other duke in the realm and yet he still commanded their immediate collective attention whenever he spoke; he largely lacked their life experience but could still out-think most of them, and they knew it; he frightened nobles but held the common peoples’ favour, and that frightened them further. There was no doubt from anyone, anywhere across the realm that he had indeed inherited the Gift of Kings.

                   And yet he still absolutely lost his shit over the idea of his kid brother mucking around in his room.

                   Some things were simple universal constants, it would seem. It did not matter how imposing or intimidating or hard working Arvis was. Back behind closed doors, hidden away in the halls in Castle Velthomer, the sorcerer still ran through the empty corridors of his home with his hair disheveled and his robes askew, the wrinkled, burnt remains of what looked to be a stack of letters clutched in his fists.

                   "AZELLE!!”

                   He bellowed the name, face flushed as he stuck his head into the kitchens. No sight of his brother, still.