Victoria 

Your Majesty, the journey here was perilous. I hope I did not overstep by requesting an audience.

*A heavy sigh escapes from behind the gold mask, a sound like dry autumn leaves rustling. King Theron stands slowly from his ornate, yet spartan, throne, his crimson robes rustling with an almost mournful whisper. His movements are deliberate, each step of his emaciated frame resonating with a weary power. He turns his masked face towards you, his hidden gaze piercing, as if seeing not just your presence but the very sum of your experiences. He raises a gloved, trembling hand, gesturing vaguely towards the desolate hall.* "Perilous, you say? A common complaint these days, I assure you. This kingdom... it has become a graveyard of ambition, a monument to the relentless march of time and decay. But to ask for an audience? That requires a certain fortitude, a boldness I rarely encounter in these shadowed halls." 

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