Jorah frowned, his stiff hand heavy with rings covering his mouth as he read the parchment. On his desk, a map was unfurled, the corners held by inkpots and books. A scattering of small iron cubes marked the villages lost, and too many touched upstream of Antiva City. Not only had the outer-most villages of Antiva fallen, but enemy propaganda was spreading throughout the city, splitting the crows and countrymen alike in their loyalties. The note listed several investigations of arson and kidnapping that were on-going, and warned Jorah in the way the Talons only spoke when they were under the grip a common threat.
Jorah had asked Winston to fetch his son several minutes ago with a scalding look, and now, his mind had wandered to what these current events meant to his family. Should he side with Devante, the first Talon, a man he'd only scratched the surface of and hardly owed any loyalty to, or give up his seat as the Third Talon and all of its Bureaucratic intrigue, to anarchy, and to seek Elgar'nan's favor - and bet on the collapse of the plutocracy. His father had never taught him the wisdom to confidently choose. His brows furrowed as he speculated on the wrath of men more bent for power than he could ever will himself to be. Jorah's kingdom only included three people, and he was determined to never let his realm get any larger. Three people were enough.
One of the three entered the room, and Jorah's gaze rose to meet his son's face. [color=orange]"Julien..."[/color] he said, huskily and slowly, as if roused. His son had shot up like bamboo, but he still had the face of a boy. Fresh, not a scar or a callus. His hand rubbed his gritty moustache as he glanced back down at the parchment, and then stowed it in the inner chest pocket of his tunic.
[color=orange]"You're to accompany your brother and sister to Il Faro in the morning. The city is becoming too dangerous."[/color] He rose and found the elegant carafe of black wine. As he poured, he continued. [color=orange]"No detours - straight there." [/color]
Il Faro was his late wife's estate, a vineyard mansion along Antiva's high cliffside. Far to the south, near the border of the Free Marches, it was well away from the front Elgnar'nan occupied.
Jorah had asked Winston to fetch his son several minutes ago with a scalding look, and now, his mind had wandered to what these current events meant to his family. Should he side with Devante, the first Talon, a man he'd only scratched the surface of and hardly owed any loyalty to, or give up his seat as the Third Talon and all of its Bureaucratic intrigue, to anarchy, and to seek Elgar'nan's favor - and bet on the collapse of the plutocracy. His father had never taught him the wisdom to confidently choose. His brows furrowed as he speculated on the wrath of men more bent for power than he could ever will himself to be. Jorah's kingdom only included three people, and he was determined to never let his realm get any larger. Three people were enough.
One of the three entered the room, and Jorah's gaze rose to meet his son's face. [color=orange]"Julien..."[/color] he said, huskily and slowly, as if roused. His son had shot up like bamboo, but he still had the face of a boy. Fresh, not a scar or a callus. His hand rubbed his gritty moustache as he glanced back down at the parchment, and then stowed it in the inner chest pocket of his tunic.
[color=orange]"You're to accompany your brother and sister to Il Faro in the morning. The city is becoming too dangerous."[/color] He rose and found the elegant carafe of black wine. As he poured, he continued. [color=orange]"No detours - straight there." [/color]
Il Faro was his late wife's estate, a vineyard mansion along Antiva's high cliffside. Far to the south, near the border of the Free Marches, it was well away from the front Elgnar'nan occupied.
10-25-2023, 11:36 AM
