Bryn sat at the desk in his study, sitting slumped in his large chair, the side of his face supported by the palm of his left hand. His study was a forbidding room, filled to its high ceiling with books and papers, in no apparent order. The shelves held forbiddingly large and strangely bound tomes, and much of the floor-space was taken up by stacks of books, upon which sat a variety of devices, both mystical, and natural. One edge of his desk was covered in a veritable pillar of wax, melted from the apparently undying candle that always, somehow, lit the whole room. Wax dripped from it, but it never seemed to shrink.<br/><br/>Bryn stood, his chair sliding out of his way without his touch. He stood, looking down at his paper strewn desk for a long moment. He knew his creatures were in his chambers below, had been for a while.<br/><br/>"Ahhhh!" he yelled, angry and vicious, his right arm slamming down on the desk, and sweeping everything off of its surface to the left. The papers spread across the floor, joining others, some crumpled, some not. Despite the fact that it got cleaning, the servants did not touch his papers, discarded or otherwise. It would be unhealthy, and unwise after all, Bryn would retrieve what he wanted, from wherever it was, no matter how long, apparently, forgotten.<br/><br/>He moved down to the staircase at the outside of the tower. It was a short spiral, ending in the door into his bedroom. He burst through it, the door opening suddenly, as the long train of cloth making up his black robes flowed through it with him. Papers from the floor above, still barely settled onto the floor were pulled through, littering the floor around the door. Bryn waved his hand at the door, which closed behind him. He didn't need to gesture so, but did so, at times, usually when he was in one of his moods, this one being the prime example.<br/><br/>"Taskill, and Midnight," he said, walking toward the bed, "I would have thought you'd be over your foolishness by now, dear Taskill, you know there is a price. As there is for you, Midnight. Thief. Pleasuring yourself with what is mine, I would make you a gelding, if I thought for even a moment that you would not repay me. Though perhaps I'll give you a choice in the means of doing so."<br/><br/>He turned to Lyra. The castle's enchantments held more than barriers, so disobedience was easy to keep track of. The Castle spoke to him, and Bryn knew that Lyra had not done as the other two. Bryn cared little, the creatures were disobedient by nature, she would eventually break the rules, all save for the meekest always did.<br/><br/>"...and Lyra!" he said, "beyond reproach, as usual. You should appreciate my pleasures," he said, "a good citizen always delights in the execution of a criminal, because they recognize the higher justice of his society."<br/><br/>Bryn reached the bed, and pulled open his robes, letting them fall to the floor. As they did they seemed to fade from sight, as though more and more light passed through them, until they were invisible, though in true, they were simply no there anymore.<br/><br/>Bryn's body was something of a mystery. A thick iron ring rounded his collarbone, on the left side of his chest, while a smaller one hung from his right ear. The ring on his hand, which never left it, was a thick plain gold band with a perfectly clear featureless crystal in the center of the band, or perhaps cut glass, but certainly no kind of precious stone. He had tattoos, in various places. One on his wrist, one on his shoulder, his left hip, his left shoulder-blade. It was strange, as they seemed to be lettering of some kind, perhaps a variety of runes, but they admitted of no translation. His perfectly muscled body betrayed his nature, as he never seemed to run, or even move quickly to get anywhere, or make an effort to keep himself in shape. His manhood matched his body perfectly, and at 6'6'' it was quite large, though apparently, unexcited, for the time being.