<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/NabKWTp.png)<br/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;">Kirion Ta'sar</span></div></div><strong>Time</strong>: Late Evening, April 19, Year Unknown<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Private Residence - Glen Avon<br/><strong>Wearing</strong>: As pictured<br/><strong>Notes (if applicable):</strong>Initial musings and mindset; appearance and further thoughts to be found on character sheet.<br/><hr/><br/>The room was quiet save for the soft scratch of pen to parchment. A fire flickered in the fireplace, more ember than flame. The room was small but richly adorned, a large four-poster bed with silken sheets of blood red placed against one wall. Within it, a sleeping human lay naked on his stomach, the object of Kirion's current attention. The elf sits in a plush chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other. He makes another line on the parchment and purses his lips, comparing his drawing to that of the sleeping figure with a keen eye. With a flick of his thumb he smudges it slowly, the remnant of ink on his fingers showing it to not be the first time.<br/><br/>Sighing softly he sets the parchment on the end table next to him. Picking up a crystal goblet he swirls the wine within, looking around the room itself. With one wall taken up by the bed and the other the fire, another holds portraits and bookcases. He knows each and every object in this room, knows its place, its history. He had collected them, after all. Tracked down their locations, bypassed their traps, and come out the victor with spoils in hand. Oh, he had handed over more than his fair share, of course. Trinkets to keep the nobility and King happy--likely the reason behind this invitation. His latest had been a set of scrolls listing the lineage of the High Elves going back at least five centuries. Worthless to Kirion, priceless to those that jockey for position on the backs of their ancestors, on the basis of blood rather than ability. Pitiful.<br/><br/>Taking a sip of wine he lets the peace of the room settle into him. His eyes flutter shut and he inhales and then breathes out, before his eyes snap open and he hurls the goblet into the fireplace. Crystal shatters and wine spills, sending the flames roaring back into health. He's<em>bored</em>. Fighting back a snarl he looks at the human that had woken with a start, and he gestures dismissively. "Get out." Kirion doesn't bother to watch as the man gets dressed and leaves quietly, instead contemplating what the night ahead might contain. Rituals are something of an occupational interest--and hazard--to one such as he, after all. Perhaps that will cure this spat of ennui.<br/><br/>And should it not, well. Perhaps it is time that he left the city and braved the rest of the world once more. For now he stands, picking up the invitation that had been hand delivered to his place of residence. The creamy parchment is of the highest quality, he notes once more. Kirion muses on the properties of the ink even as he stares at the seal of the King, eyes bypassing the words to stare at the signature. He's already long since memorized the words and judged them of little import. If the ritual ends up being as dull as he suspects it may, it might be time to reconsider which artifacts he hands over to whom.<br/><br/>Folding the missive he slides it into his breast pocket, collecting his cloak and, after a moment's thought, his usual supplies. It never hurts to be prepared. After a last look he moves through the rest of the house and out the front door, locking and sealing it behind him. He's not sure when he shall return, mind already miles away and sorting through various rumors and intelligence he has managed to acquire. His steps feel lighter already, the fog in his mind falling away now that he has a plan. He shall see this ritual of the King's, and then he shall seek out something to assuage his boredom.