Fanfic:Letters from Home
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Tick. Scritch. Scritch. Tick.
The man sitting in the padded chair before the hearth was the picture of relaxed superiority. Dressed in black from head to toe - black boots, black breeches, and black shirt matched nearly black eyes and hair. One pale, fine boned hand casually held a sheet of creamy, soft parchment in front of his aristocratic face. His slightly tilted shoulders and torso, leaning a little into one side of the chair, would have seemed the picture of relaxation to an observer.
There were no observers, though, here in Lembirt's room in the Brown Dedicated quarters. That was a good thing, for any observer would have also noticed Lembirt's left hand, resting on the arm of his chair, which was most assuredly not relaxed.
The letter was written in an odd cipher; geometric shapes and square-edged symbols marched across the page in orderly rows and columns. It would have been nonsensical to someone who did not understand the Adillarn ciphers, although rather pretty, but Lembirt could read this one with ease. It was the simplest cipher; the one that Adillarn eyes and ears of no particular value used when they sent their often trifling news back to the Lords of the House.
Lembirt
No title, no surname, just Lembirt.
It has come to our attention that you have erroneously been assuming the name of House Adillarn. We do not take this slight lightly, and would strongly recommend that you cease immediately. You are no longer entitled to the privileges once owed to you as a member of the House.
That was all; no indication that this letter was from his own mother other than the signature below.Lady Chvabaere Second Seat of House Adillarn
The letter had come sealed with a cluster of stars pressed into blue wax; Chvabaere's own sigil rather than the golden trefoil leaf of Adillarn. That was irrelevant; anyone with half a lick of sense knew that a letter from Chvabaere was a letter from Adillarn, even if she was only Third Seat... Second Seat now, since she had apparently assumed Lembirt's former rank.
The letter was short, but the man sitting in the chair seemed transfixed by it, staring endlessly at the fine parchment. His only motion was that of his restless left hand, the first two fingers scratching endlessly at the side of his thumb, where years of this activity had thickened and dried the skin like one large callus. The Dedicated seemed completely oblivious to his actions, until he caught an edge with one of his manicured nails and pulled a large strip of flesh from the side of his finger. Bright blood welled up in the shallow cut. Lembirt looked down at his hand with an expression of distaste, setting the letter aside and moving to his wash-pitcher to clean the small wound.
That done, he returned to his seat before the hearth, picking up the letter once more, his posture as relaxed as it had always been.
Tick. Scritch.
