Orsa's work had been observed, of course. Not merely by the apparent dunce of a labourer who delivered the bodies to him, nor the man Pedro had sent to ensure he wasn't targeted by any of the superstitious members of Estevan's court (and<i>he</i>had been surreptitious, loitering with apparent premonition whenever someone happened by without good reason.) The Usurper King had made his own visits, satisfying his curiosity via the myriad vantage points the castle's architects had included for monarchs long past. Not once did he announce himself, watching silent and fascinated as the vitamancer went about his grisly processes with a driving, fanatical kind of energy he found equal parts alarming and impressive. He had no doubt that the others would drive him out, had they the choice. The obsession was unhealthy, might be dangerous - the practice might even be intrinsically evil. Yet Estevan couldn't logically bring himself to that conclusion. What was a carcass but meat and bone? Why was it wrong to use it as a construction material, the way that horn and ivory was, simply because it had been sourced from the bodies of men?<br/><br/>While the vitamancer slaved to complete his task before the three day deadline, Estevan sat with his war council, held audiences with nobles come grovelling from the far corners of his territories, seeking protection, and read through requisition reports, ensuring the momentum of his expansion campaign with a determination not entirely dissimilar to that of his 'guest'. He'd learnt to pace himself over the years, to recognise within the times where he'd spread himself too thinly to be effective. That didn't mean there weren't occasions where he lay awake restlessly, unable to put his thoughts to bed as easily as he had his body. Perhaps that was why he smiled to himself, a lupine expression, wry, as he caught Orsa slumped at his work, recalling his own cheek, stamped with the grain of the wood on his desk on the days he'd finally succumbed like a narcolpetic.<br/><br/>On the night that the castle's servants cowered in fear at the strange, unearthly sound coming from the cells, the King had been in the process of divesting himself of his clothes, fingers at his laces while some swarthy skinned, eager young courtier bent over the foot of his bed. He couldn't remember the man's name, or whether they'd occupied themselves this way before. He had no interest beyond the physical relief of such interludes. Perhaps it was not so for hos anonymous companion though, who appeared as much alarmed by his withdrawal as he was by the sound coming from the bowels of the castle.<br/><br/>"Sire, can not someone else--,"<br/><br/>But Estevan Mendoza was already at the door, pulling his hastily collected shirt back on over his head and walking a well remembered route to the cells even before the guard Orsa had sent to fetch him set off. They met half-way, the guard wide-eyed, like a rabbit spooked by a lantern. "It impresses, I assume," he remarked as he passed the man by. The guard fell in behind him, hustling to keep up with his lengthy strides. He stumbled over his words, and Estevan dismissed the importance of them, whatever they had been supposed to be.<br/><br/>He met Pedro's man on the stairs, lean as a greyhound, irritatingly silent as he fell into step with him. Estevan forgave him, if only because he was unrepentantly uncowed by rank. And his presence saw the guard retreating gratefully.<br/><br/>"This one might be entertaining. Can we keep him?" The man asked, sotto voce, and Estevan caught the strange, nocturnal gleam of the assassin's eyes as they descended. Rafael's lineage was as questionable as his own, hair a dark auburn, eyes an amber brown. Pedro, his master of spies had assured him there was none better, and so far, despite his oddities, he was living up to his reputation.<br/><br/>"You make him sound like a new horse in the stable. Stay out here, Rafe. No one comes through." He continued down alone, in the wake of a jauntily given salute, and entered the cells to find Orsa on his knees, marvelling at his own creation.<br/><br/>The King examined it, seemingly impassive. He was waiting for some sense of wrongness to begin curdling in his gut, for his scruples to scream bloody murder and tell him he'd been wrong to allow the the outsider to stay. But there was nothing. Perhaps something was lacking. How many men could kill their father and not suffer the guilt expected? Moving closer to the cage, he glanced briefly at the scraps of the savaged glove, and seemed almost to be daring it closer. He turned his head, just far enough to make it obvious he was addressing the vitamancer. "Command it to come closer. I would see your control of it."