The King raised an eyebrow as he gazed down at the young woman from his throne. Truth be told, he was not expecting to negotiate with a woman; he had been anticipating a clerk of some sort. Yet he was not too surprised either. Maurice Abernathy was a... strange man, to put things lightly. He had never met the man before, of course, but he had heard tales of how unconventional the man appeared to be. And there were numerous tales from those within his court who had met him. He was either a loon or an exceptionally brilliant man, depending on who was telling the tale. But at this point in time, exceptionally brilliant was what was needed.<br/><br/>A pregnant pause ensued, before the King finally gave a short nod of greeting. "Well met, Mistress Abernathy," he said finally, in formal tones. "We are pleased to welcome you into our midst. We understand that you have traveled a far distance from your home town, and we are under the assumption that you would prefer to rest and refresh yourself first, from your long journey. The negotiations may be conducted tomorrow morning, when all parties are at their most alert. A servant will show you to the rooms that have been prepared for you, and to inform you of dinner arrangements." He gave a nod, and a young woman with mousy brown hair tied back in a bun stepped forward. She curtsied, saying nothing, waiting at a respectable distance.<br/><br/>-<br/><br/><a class="postlink" href="http://data.whicdn.com/images/56905745/large.jpg">[ img ]</a><br/>About three levels down, a young man with short dark brown hair scowled at a black vellum scroll laid out on top of his writing desk. An ink well sat close by, a pen laid in front of it. His tutor had just placed the scroll before him and told him in no uncertain terms to practice his calligraphy because his writing was like a chicken had dipped it's feet into a bottle of ink and ran across it aimlessly. Personally, he did not think his writing was that bad. He could at least understand what he was writing, was that not good enough?  Plus, what did it matter, it was not like he was going to be using his writing to... do anything, really. It felt like a useless skill. Much like all the things he had been taught previously. And he could not help thinking that all the skills he had been taught were simply ways and means to keep him occupied.<br/><br/>Plus, writing was boring. And, he was a Prince. If he refused to do his exercises, his tutor could not say anything about it, could he? But what else was he to do? Pace about his rooms? As it was, his schedule was strictly regimented. Breakfast, then reading and lessons. Lunch, then writing exercises. Tea, then archery and sword-fighting practice. Dinner, then the boredom of waiting until it was time to bathe and sleep. Archery practice was the highlight of his day. Everything else could just.. well... do themselves.<br/><br/>Resolutely, he picked up the pen, dipped it into the ink-well, and began, not to write, but to doodle. Rude caricatures of his tutor, his sword-fighting instructor, his parents, some of the more noisy servants began to fill the scroll, along with some rather obscene drawings that were just better off not being described. A naughty smirk began to shape itself on his lips.<br/><br/>And thus, Prince Eric Sevier, the least of his family, the terror of tutors country-wide, continued about his daily activities in driving the people around him to insanity.