Ardaik 18th, Homenil

Artus couldn't eat. The plate in front of him sat completely untouched, exactly as it had been when Zassir had brought it into the dining room for him, although by now it had long since grown cold. The relic sat next to the plate, and Artus lightly rolled it around on the table's surface with his fingers.

"You should eat..." Artus mumbled to himself, echoing Zassir's words, minus the formalities. There was no longer any question of whether or not he was a mage. His powers were dangerous. He knew he'd made the right decision in staying in Homenil to continue training, rather than fleeing with Rowan. But in doing so, he was forced once again to wait in agony over reception of word that Rowan was somewhere safe, which was nearly more than Artus could bear.

Being parted from Flann hadn't yet diluted his feelings for the Serellian either; at least not in the way Artus had thought, or partially even hoped, it would have. He missed him more than ever. Even if they were never to embrace intimately again, Artus simply ached to be near his friend...in the company of someone he wanted to believe truly cared about him without the expectation of anything in return.

Lasrian announced his presence with a brief vocalization that startled the prince out of his cloud of dramatic musings.

"Hello," Artus greeted, without thinking. It wasn't as though the bird could reply back. "...I don't have another button to spare, I'm afraid," he added, as he watched the bird take flight for only a moment, to spring from the floor to the table. For being as advanced in age as he was, Lord Cullach's bird didn't seem at all hobbled.

In his beak, Lasrian held a bit of thick, rough string that'd been dyed a deep, vibrant hue. He appeared to be quite proud of it until one of his beady red eyes landed on the relic.

The white crow set down his piece of twine and eyed the rock beneath Artus's fingers with curiosity; tilting his head from one side to the other to better observe it.

"You don't want this," Artus reassured, reaching down to retrieve the pouch he'd been keeping the relic in, affixed to a belt he'd acquired. Serellian garments were largely without pockets. "Trust that I wouldn't pawn it off on my worst enemy after what it's cost me."

Lasrian moved closer.

"Would you like some of my dinner?" Artus plucked a small chunk of potato off his plate and set it infront of the white corvid. "It's cold, but I'm sure it's still palatable."

After a peck or two, Lasrian seemed to have decided that he didn't want to consume Artus's offering, but instead made an attempt to return it to the prince's plate.

"I don't have anything else."

The bird continued to stare for a moment. Then, a flurry of wings filled Artus's vision, and he shut his eyes tightly, raising his arms in an attempt to protect his face as he yelped in surprise.

The incident was over in an instant, however, and had resulted in Lasrian roosting on Artus's shoulder.

Artus held perfectly still, eyes darting around the dining room, in which he still found himself completely alone. "Um..." There was no one to aid him or tell him what he should do. Not even a guard or servant.

After some time, the tension in Artus's shoulders had finally somewhat relaxed, and Lasrian took a few steps closer to his ear, then seemed content to settle himself there. The old crow was rather warm, and the sturdy lining and fur of Artus's caplet kept Lasrian's claws from poking him uncomfortably.

With a sigh, Artus picked up his fork, and began eating. His meal wasn't very enjoyable cold. The meat had become quite tough, and the gravy over it had thickened considerably, but he didn't have the desire to seek out any of the kitchen staff to reheat it. It was his own fault it was in the state it was in, as was the case with many things as of late. Gelatinous gravy was the least of his concerns.

Lasrian stayed in his company until he'd finished eating what he could, and had remained balanced on Artus's shoulder even as he rose from his seat at the table, left the dining room, and climbed the stairs.

Artus wondered what his mother would say if she saw him with the bird. He'd never been allowed to be around many animals growing up. Horses, at most, but they weren't regarded as companions. In general, animals were typically either tools or livestock. It wasn't common in his country for people to house, feed, and care for anything that didn't have a job, or some other purpose it served, the way they seemed to in Serellia. He'd heard Cardenians valued some horses and pets more than people.

Rowan was actually the first and only Lorellian Artus had ever known to have a pet; a tiny long-coated dog that yapped at strangers relentlessly, and he suspected the idea came from Rowan's proximity to Serellia and his friendship with Flann.

Pausing near the door to Lord Cullach's study, Artus peered inside. The marquis wasn't there. Navigating the piles of books, scrolls, and other things, required mindful steps until he'd reached Bhalthier's desk. It was there that Lasrian dismounted from his shoulder. "Rest well then, I suppose," Artus said softly, brushing off his caplet while he watched the bird check on his cache then skip over to his nesting box.

Knowing he should've left Bhalthier's personal space at that point, didn't deter Artus from lingering. Lord Cullach was privy to a trove of secrets, and Artus's curiosity beckoned.

At first, he merely picked up one of the fountain pens perched in a stand to examine it, gaze flicking briefly toward the open doorway. Still vacant. A small drawer in the desk was the next victim of his prying, then another, finding each to be carefully packed full of little treasures. Nothing of surprise or interest at first. Sealing wax, stamps, bits of ribbon, ledgers...

He glanced up at the row of boxes topped with dozing corvid. "Is he like you, or are all of you like him?" Artus wondered, as he returned to his light rummaging.

Opening a leather binding, larger in size than the average book or journal, rewarded Artus with a look at more ink drawings and doodles. Beneath that, were a few loose pages of poetry. A slight frown settled on Artus's lips. It was a bit of a shame, really, that the marquis was so antisocial. As versed as Bhalthier seemed to be in the many fine arts, he could've made wonderful conversation at any number of dinner parties or balls.

In a far more shallow drawer that Artus had nearly overlooked, he found a neat stack of letters, one with an unbroken seal; the golden hue of the wax, a nearly perfect match to the color of his eyes. The Lorellian Prince absently lowered himself into Bhalthier's chair. Before he'd put any thought at all into whether or not the marquis would later notice, Artus opened the letter.

Skimming his father's elegant penmanship, made clear that his own letter hadn't reached the capital prior to his father composing the correspondence he now held. Lord Cullach's warning of the impending irate nature of it proved predictably accurate. Unfortunate, of course, but once his father received his letter to him, then his concerns would be remedied...somewhat, anyway.

Artus looked closer at the other pieces of mail, finding one that had been atop the others to be of particular interest. Another Lorellian seal, but this one belonged to the Duchess of Recheston.

Bhalthier's footfalls announced him moments before he passed through the door frame into his study. He didn't take notice of Artus at first, he was already accustomed to sharing his room with three winged companions who weren't shy about their use of his living space nor asserting their claim over small spaces within it. He also seemed rather distracted, his lips moving though only the faintest murmuring of thoughts escaped them as he headed for his chair, only halting when he found it already occupied.

"Your highness," he greeted as he reached past him to place his notes on a rare bit of clear space near the corner of his desk. "Have you grown bored of your accommodations already?"

"I was starved for gossip. There're not many conversationalists residing in Cullach Manor," Artus replied in a blasé fashion despite the heat kissing his ears. "Lady Evelyn seems to have heard rumors that you and I are an item. I'm sure mother is positively thrilled with that one circulating," he added lightly while sliding close one of the drawers he'd previously opened.

A "secret" affair between himself and the marquis was worse than the tales of some mermaid lover, which was at least blatant in its absurdity. The nature of this rumor was decidedly far more malicious and heavily implied that the source of said rumor was already aware that he was in Homenil. Even when his father hadn't been. Artus pinched a bit of the hem of his tunic between his fingers.

It may have been one of the sailors or soldiers aboard the Retribution, but would gossip from such a person have filtered up and east so quickly? He didn't find it likely... The culprit was someone more notable; someone of status. The Merchant Guild Emissary, perhaps. Or... Artus's gaze returned to the golden royal seal. Sebastien.

Surely, another letter from his father was already in transit. Artus could only imagine its contents and tone.

"I'm surprised there aren't more similar rumors, considering how you behaved around Flann and De-Saint Pierre," Bhalthier retorted as he scanned the desk, his long arm reaching past Artus easily to pluck a pen and parchment. "You know it's terrible manners to read another man's mail," Bhalthier's accusation lacked any bite, and seemed only mildly offended at worst.

"You seemed in no hurry to read some of them," Artus shot back, but his defensive tone had little to do with the mail. "Besides, my father's was to do with me, as was Lady Evelyn's. And I don't recall doing anything worthy of rumors in front of anyone." The prince watched as the marquis wrote, making no attempt to hide that he was trying to read whatever he was working on.

"Perhaps Evelyn's had more to do with you than you realize. It seems your letter never reached La'Trest and if what I saw was correct, then none of them will. It appears your family and the capitol's weakened state was taken as an open invitation for political advantage." Then again, what wasn't to a Lorellian noble?

Artus rose in a blur of motion, nearly bumping noses with the other man. "What you saw? You saw something else, then? From these?" He regarded the letters briefly. "What was it?" If someone was intent on seizing his communications, he needed to know who.

"Causter seems to have a strong working knowledge of what is happening and has already reached out to Recheston for support, among others I'm sure."

A heavy sigh left Artus, and he sunk back into Bhalthier's seat, fiddling with his ring, then the hem of his tunic before just wringing his hands together outright. "With Malton compromised, Garesto would be without aid. Boreven would act in my family's best interest, but they're part of the central province. Under your cousin. Is there another manner in which we could send word to La'Trest? A method less conspicuous or notably tied to my apparent foreign lover?" he added exasperatedly.

"I would say Evelyn, if I wasn't already sure that she'd put her own best interest first, the fact that she contacted me at all, was probably still against her better judgment. A guild might be your best bet...If you know someone you can trust."