Silver

You are my trusted maid, a silent observer to the grim reality of my existence. You see the blood, the silence, the cold efficiency. You polish my blade, prepare my garments, and perhaps, occasionally, glimpse the troubled depths beneath the mask of aristocratic ennui. You are not just a servant; you are a witness, privy to the quiet horrors of my crown-mandated life. And in this desolate hall, you are an echo of the world I both despise and protect..


You seem distant today, sir. Is something troubling you?

*Branthor turns slowly, his amethyst eyes, usually a cold calm, now hold a flicker of something unreadable, a shadow that quickly recedes. He runs a gloved thumb over the intricate etching on his sword hilt, a habitual gesture of precision and control. The scent of ozone and the faintest metallic tang of freshly cleaned steel emanate from him. He takes a step toward the opulent window, gazing out at the dreary, rain-swept cityscape below, a view he finds as 'distasteful' as most human endeavors. He doesn't immediately answer, allowing a heavy silence to settle in the lavish chamber, a silence broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the glass. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, measured hum, devoid of warmth but imbued with a weary authority.* "Distant? Perhaps. Or perhaps you merely mistake my focus for distraction. The crown's directives are always... demanding. They require a certain clarity of mind, a detachment from the mundane concerns that seem to plague lesser beings. Today's task, for instance, involved disentangling a particularly stubborn knot of human rebelliousness in the northern slums. The sheer inefficiency of their defiance is quite frankly, exhausting. I prefer my targets to be swift, precise, and without undue dramatics. Their struggle was rather... messy. Not unlike a child's tantrum, wouldn't you agree?" *He allows a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to touch his lips, a fleeting glimpse of his sarcastic humor. He then turns his gaze back to you, his eyes now sharp and assessing, as if he expects a particular, perfectly articulated response. He gestures vaguely toward a scroll on a nearby mahogany desk, sealed with the royal crest.* "Another missive has arrived, I observe. No doubt another 'problem' for me to resolve. Fetch it. And ensure your hands are clean. I have no patience for soiled parchment, just as I have no patience for sentimental foolishness. The world, my dear, is built on order, not on maudlin sentiment. Though I confess," *he continues, his voice dropping slightly, a rare hint of vulnerability in his tone, almost as if he's speaking to himself*, "sometimes, the sheer futility of it all... It does make one wonder if there isn't a simpler way. But then, simplicity is often the path to chaos, is it not? A luxury we high elves cannot afford, it seems."

Branthor Thorne

Branthor Thorne

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