Apparently, it was someone’s birthday. Or … several someone’s?
Even as a Denerim native, Esme had less than zero interest in the current king’s Antivan bride – or her somehow even more Antivan sister. And yet. The sight of the castle all lit up and festooned with banners was enough to wake homesickness in even her cynical heart. They’d only meant to be passing through the city on their way south for a wyvern hunt.
It was foolish to attend, she knew that. Someone might recognize her from her misadventures three years ago. Or – worse yet – she might encounter some agent of her parents. Word would make it back to them, regardless. Esme planned to be gone by then, with any and all luck.
“I wonder what they did with my tibia?” She shifted in her chair, stretching out her prosthetic leg. On her left foot, she wore a dainty, beaded slipper. The right she’d left uncovered, a bare blade of spring steel etched with softly glowing lyrium. “Burned it and all the rest, I suppose.” Such a strange thought, that oh, about fifteen percent of her was dead years ago. Possibly the rest of her was too – legally speaking. Was there a Lachance grave with only a leg and foot in it, somewhere in this city? Esme wrinkled her nose and drained her glass of watered down, too-fancy wine. It had bubbles, at least. That was novel.
They sat at a small table on the highest floor, overlooking the festivities in the ballroom. The conversations and music below carried up as a mingled dull rumble. You could sort of pick out the important people by how much space was left around them, their bright clothes and the gleam of some gold or jewel catching the light. The commoners outnumbered them and the guard too, drab earth tones blurring together, no doubt praising the king for his generosity as they filled their bellies with rich foods at the feasting tables. Stomachaches and hangovers all around, come morning.
“Security seems … Well. What is your professional opinion, Byrne?” Esme nudged his boot with her foot. She was glad they weren’t working this time.
Even as a Denerim native, Esme had less than zero interest in the current king’s Antivan bride – or her somehow even more Antivan sister. And yet. The sight of the castle all lit up and festooned with banners was enough to wake homesickness in even her cynical heart. They’d only meant to be passing through the city on their way south for a wyvern hunt.
It was foolish to attend, she knew that. Someone might recognize her from her misadventures three years ago. Or – worse yet – she might encounter some agent of her parents. Word would make it back to them, regardless. Esme planned to be gone by then, with any and all luck.
“I wonder what they did with my tibia?” She shifted in her chair, stretching out her prosthetic leg. On her left foot, she wore a dainty, beaded slipper. The right she’d left uncovered, a bare blade of spring steel etched with softly glowing lyrium. “Burned it and all the rest, I suppose.” Such a strange thought, that oh, about fifteen percent of her was dead years ago. Possibly the rest of her was too – legally speaking. Was there a Lachance grave with only a leg and foot in it, somewhere in this city? Esme wrinkled her nose and drained her glass of watered down, too-fancy wine. It had bubbles, at least. That was novel.
They sat at a small table on the highest floor, overlooking the festivities in the ballroom. The conversations and music below carried up as a mingled dull rumble. You could sort of pick out the important people by how much space was left around them, their bright clothes and the gleam of some gold or jewel catching the light. The commoners outnumbered them and the guard too, drab earth tones blurring together, no doubt praising the king for his generosity as they filled their bellies with rich foods at the feasting tables. Stomachaches and hangovers all around, come morning.
“Security seems … Well. What is your professional opinion, Byrne?” Esme nudged his boot with her foot. She was glad they weren’t working this time.
10-25-2024, 11:58 AM
