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(A Roleplay between Bohtimbhar, Cleo, and Gwyr.)

A dismal era has covered the entirety of the fabled homeland of the Elvish Highborn, Dreralia. Three nights ago at this very hour, The high king, once greatly respected by his people, once the absolute monarch of the Highborn, was found blood-soaked within his ransacked bed chambers. Without an actual heir of the Lord's own blood, the divine mandate that was his word began to waver amongst his own people. The former royal council were forced to make the awkward decision of choosing the King's nephew as the successor to the former celestial realm. Met with uproar and anger from rival families, claimants, and once loyal servants, this great outcry manifested itself as a somewhat synchronized secession from the realm.

Completely unable to control it's own vassals, the unready kingdom is now utterly powerless to quell it's rebellions... At least through diplomacy anyway. With no other option, and unable to bring the perpetrators to the country-wrecking assassination to justice, the loyalists will soon be forced spill the blood of their own stubborn and arrogant brothers, lest they be finally toppled by a claimant, or by foreign invasion...

It is the early morning within the once prestigious capitol. Within the King's former castle, lay heart-stopping architecture of marble, jewels, stain glass littering the tall hallways of this massive paradise. The statues of ancient generals and Elvish heroes dominate the way toward the throne room, but the room is utterly devoid of any former glory. The castle is almost completely empty, the dominating architecture gone to waste.

A tall, hulk of steel surveys the empty throne room, utterly devoid of life. The colourful decorations that once accompanied the powerful atmosphere have been torn completely. Within three short days, the castle had been made into a museum of complete solitude. Aside from Bohtimbhar, there wasn't anyone else to be seen. The capitol was being moved to the new lord's city. The Elf sighed. "This decision will only lead to more dissent. And I had thought we had already reached the bottom of the barrel..." He joked to himself, his only witness being the ghastly wind that now haunted the empty halls.

Gwyr was a newcomer; a wandering sellsword, no doubt one of many. But it had not taken him long to pick up news of what had happened, and the situation that the realm now found itself in. He had been drawn, naturally, then by the allure of work. While to native's of the realm the idea of quashing a rebellion might have been rather unpleasant, for the former Mageslayer and Beasthunter, he had little reason to get himself involved in the politics. Motivated solely by coin, for now at any rate. Dismounting from the feathery-footed stallion that he had purchased a league or so back, he remained clad within the seemingly suffocating confines of the orbansa - a thick cloak that concealed all but his eyes, and those gave away enough reason as to why he covered himself when somewhere new, for they were a vivid, wild orange.

And so through the streets he wandered, ears' open to any rumours or whispers that might come his way of the most promising place to go.

Cleo was nothing special. In her eyes, nothing more then an elf with good taste, but here she was, asked by her brother, to go on his behalf to the Kingdom Dreralia. She was asked to take his presence in a new commission of oil canvas. Although, she did not consider herself half the artist her brother was, she did consider herself quite the shot. Being able to smack a wooden target from a mile away, or something as small as a partridge in the blue wavering sky. But alas, her brother fell ill, and asked her to complete said task.

Arriving to the outskirts of the kingdom, she removed her hood, revealing her snow white hair, and light blue eyes. She tilted her head in admiration. It was being in a family of artists that allowed one to take pleasure in such beautiful things. Such as said castle. In a silent step, she found herself inside its walls, and searching for said commissioner.

As splendid as the castle's architecture was, the decoration that once accompanied the stunning structure had obviously being torn down. Even the throne had been picked apart, now resembling some sort of glorified stool. The only clear sound was the clank of hard steel, as Bohtimbhar loitered around the lonesome halls. Bohtimbhar sighed once more, for now was the time to leave this grey room, once home to one of the most prestigious and important beings in the land's history. The only reason to stay would be to wallow alone in pity. The Elvish knight was not going to bring himself to such a low.

As he made his way back to the exit of the castle, across the massive hallways, he was somewhat surprised to see that another figure had made their way inside. The new lord had made it clear that only his retinue were allowed in the silent castle at this very moment. As he got closer, he decided to make his presence known.

"Who would enter the lord's castle without permission? I demand an answer!" The impatient knight shouted as he got closer.

Gwyr was rather more patient, and had spent rather longer in checking out the castle - eavesdropping as much as actually looking with his own two eyes, before making his way indoors. One thing that made finding the most suitable figure in charge all the easier, was following the shout. The decayed nature of the castle did not detract from the fact that it still looked rather impressive, but in a faded way, in the manner that one might admire an imposing ruin or the lingering remains of a once prosperous town.

Gwyr at least, looked rather more imposing, something that the nature of his clothes, dark mottled flesh and wild eyes naturally helped with.
"You would turn away those that have heard word of this Kingdom's troubles, who have come to offer aid?" His voice was deep, with just the barest suggestion of a gravelly undertone that could not quite be placed.