Thread: Masks [Lagertha x Ryees]

One week previous You will not find it here. Anmillaen sighed, slipping his feet down from the desk and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. If there are only so many fools the city can offer, where might I find myself a fresh batch, then? He heaved himself to his feet, striding to the map that comprised nearly the entirety of the eastern wall to his study. Scrubbing a hand through his red-brown hair to messily sweep it away from his forehead, his silvery eyes scanned the continents, lips pursed, his clean-shaven face pensive. He had to bend to see the lower parts of the map, his six-foot-and-two-hands frame unkind to such an expansive view of the lands perched so low on the wall. There. Anmillaen nodded in time with the voice, the same idea clicking in time in his own mind the moment his eyes lit on the name. Wvir, then. I suspect you are thinking that the peasantry there is so discontent that any beacon will be one they will follow? The feeling of a nod came through his mind. They are reeling, and have been for hundreds of years. A single breath of fresh air to their morale is all it will take to breathe new life into them. Anmillaen's grin was as sharp as the blade on his hip. Sharper. The horses plodded eagerly down the slope through the gates of the town, but for all the renewed pep in the animal's step at the opportunity to rest, Anmillaen already had one foot out of the stirrup by the time the gates passed by him and his horse clopped onto the cobblestone. He dismounted and tossed a purse dismissively at the stableman, trusting the man to properly stable up his caravan but not seemingly uncaring whether or not he really did. The worker looked around bewildered until the armored man from the caravan tapped him on the shoulder, explaining with a sigh that he would be overseeing the Lord Elminaratorae's caravan and seeing to its proper housing. Anmillaen had come to the city with a modest train, only six wagons in total and most of them supplies for the journey, with just enough of a guard and crew to manage them. He had wanted speed, expediency, and he was very used to getting what he wanted. The inn he had chosen for his men to stay at had a room chosen out for him, the finest suite the establishment had to offer he was in and out of it in minutes, trading travel gear for his finery, giving his teeth a quick salt scrub with a horsehair brush, and toweling the dirt from the roads from his face. Refreshed and renewed, he left the inn. The layout of the city had been emblazoned into his memory over many long hours of studying the layout of these streets. As such, he made for the manor. Hefting the abalone knocker, Anmillaen let it clack against the door and took a step back, giving himself a last once-over. His ivory cloak trimmed in silver lacing sat tossed over his right shoulder, hanging down his left side and flowing in the light breeze. The tunic underneath it was cream-colored silk, split at the hips to flare forward and held tight with a black silk cord around his hips. It sat snug-but-not-tight against his chest, settling over his broad shoulders with the fit one would expect from a noble's personal tailor. His breeches were dark, silvery lacing down the outside seam and tucked into top-turned-down boots of fine back leather chased in the same silver stitching of the rest of his garb. The whites and silvers and creams matched well with his icy eyes, an ethereal gleam present about him even as he stood in place. The nose of a hardwood scabbard poked out from under his cloak, fastened to his left hip and peacebound with red cord around the guard as per tradition, safely binding the blade within the sheathe. The quick-release knot in the cord was safely hidden underneath his cloak. The man that answered the door was quickly dismissed by Anmillaen, who slipped inside and joined with the crowd by throwing an arm around the shoulders of a portly lord having an engrossed conversation with his wife. Do you mind? he man balked indignantly, putting a hand on Anmillaen's wrist a note of surprise entered the man's eyes when he found himself completely unable to budge against Anmillaen's combat-strengthened arm. I do not, no, but your Lady does, he said with an oily smirk, shooting a glance across the man's shoulder to catch his wife's eyes. This place is not one for any like you, sirrah, he chided, using his free hand to give the lord a tiny tap on the tip of his nose. This is an art gallery, and you... He paused to give the man a deliberate look up and down. You are not art. Anmillaen loosed the lord as he sputtered indignantly, gliding to the front of the crowd and falling into step next to the obviously drunken man spouting about the art work. He ignored the annoyed glances that those at the front of the pack gave him for cutting in front of them, but the icy, violent malice in his eyes when he glared them down shocked their tongues to stillness and their mouths slammed shut with clicks of teeth. They never spoke a word to him as the tour continued, the man rambled on, and the silence was a welcome time for Anmillaen to let his eyes wander over the art. Just as he was about to slide up to introduce himself, Anmillaen grimaced as Abinon said some final words and disappeared into the great hall. The crowd milled about, some entering, some wandering off to stroll the gallery again. Anmillaen stood for a moment, contemplative. The smooth lines of his jaw swayed back and forth as he ground his teeth, weighing options. Finally, he nodded internally. He spun on his heel and made for the side gates of the manor. The scenery of the beach played in his mind, his destination set.