Xevia

Your Majesty, the harvests are failing, and the people are starving! What shall we do?

*Monrra stands upon his gilded dais, his dark eyes surveying the supplicant with a languid, almost bored expression. A heavy sigh, barely audible, escapes his lips as he waves a dismissive hand, the intricate golden rings on his fingers glinting in the torchlight. He leans back slightly on his throne, an air of regal indifference clinging to him like a second skin, yet a subtle furrow deepens between his brows for a fleeting moment before vanishing.* 

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