He'd been fine with the lack of light, though it must have been characteristic for such a menace to enjoy the dark. What little streamed in from the hallway was serviceable enough for him to unpack and start setting his books atop a nearby shelf. Orsa nodded along as one unfortunate soul managed to respond to his inquiry, but otherwise managed to get in the jab of "Surely he doesn't hire you to talk does he," before the lot shuffled out of the room following their halfhearted bows. No matter. He lit an oil lamp he found while scavenging through a nearby desk, set it by his bed so that he could read before rest like the old man he'd been turning into.<br/><br/>A strange book, looked appropriately ancient, stuffed with fresh pages from years ago when he found a man to translate it under the cover of night. It helped him greatly on his path to replacing the metal works of old, not only in construction but in inspiration. But deep in it's contents it held more foul musings. Horrifically clear instructions for would-be liches that had racked his mind for a good while now. It reminded him that all this work wouldn't last, that even his service to the king was temporary, that perfection was a myth in the face of a world constantly changing. Perhaps this is what a mid life crisis was for accursed craftsmen. If he'd not been exhausted, Orsa would have spent another sleepless night pacing over it.<br/><br/>Orsa had always been a light sleeper, so when he woke up in a bed for the first time in days it still stood as a surprise to him that he had missed the usual dawn. What lack of proper rest would do to a man. Still it was pleasant enough that he hadn't been interrupted in the middle of the night to tend to Mendoza's whims given the new knowledge that he had the habit of doing so. Instead of straying outside just yet he spent some time reorganizing his room, his desk, setting aside whatever had to be tossed, and staring sadly at the old armor he had kept beside the near-empty bookshelf, donned with the familiar crest that he might as well throw to the pile. Campona no longer existed, whatever map this kingdom painted next would have little more than hills in it's place.<br/><br/>Hair brushed sleek and tied at the neck with string, while changing into plain linens and trousers for decency's sake, he heard a knock at the door. Not a soldier but not trembling like the castle servants. "I take it that it wasn't you who came to tidy up before." Something he had noticed when he fully awoke. "Non-professional.. You don't need to worry about that. I won't have you picking apart any bodies anytime soon." He entertained himself with a laugh. Generous of the king to grant him a proper servant.<br/><br/>Orsa was certainly chatty, especially when revitalized and optimistic for the days ahead. The boy took the most of it, though Orsa never forced a reply from him and felt happy enough letting the words bounce off like a wall. With the new helping hands he requested he fitted himself into proper attire, making the note to stock a new wardrobe the moment time allowed, as well as Segovian colors for when he'd take his creations to the battlefield.<br/><br/>The door opening near the end of that morning startled him some, and shocked him more to see Mendoza arrive in the flesh, without warning and dressed as if he'd just gone hunting. The men last night didn't lie did they? Orsa was quick to bow with a soft "sire" when greeted, and shortly after Raoul was sent to fetch food and drink. "It seems I've slept like the dead, if you'd pardon the phrase." Well mannered and humorous now that he wasn't going crazy. "Pardon my attitude last night. I get rather lost in my work, even more so when given such an important task. And besides, it's not uncommon for a vitamancer to set his mind on what's before him. Such is almost necessary to manipulate those beasts... Though that brings up another thought I had."<br/><br/>Orsa raised his head again and set to clearing a nearby table for the meal Raoul would bring. "Should you call it that? Or, what would your majesty prefer? Necromancy is more often than naught a slur and a blemish on my good name. But that name is long lost now, I wish to pledge myself to Segovia, to your rule. With the coming age, would I be privy in accepting that title? You seem the type of man that takes control of the slander lobbied at him... I wish to follow that example." He slowly sat himself down, staring off into nothing for a moment as if to commit to that plan. "Though perhaps I'm getting in over my head, that foresight on the matter isn't necessary. Cart before the horse, so they say." To bring legitimacy to the art of necromancy seemed like a dream carried away by the wind, distant on the bridge that keeps swaying. Orsa had yet to know if his residency was even permanent, should the king change his mind.