Post by Everett Price on Oct 2, 2016 17:37:21 GMT -5
Most of the families assembled in Vanderhall have now been in the presence of the Crown for coming up on a week -- and the air remains tense with each passing day, as no decision has been made. Meetings of an honest or covert nature continue surreptitiously behind closed doors, along shadowed corridors -- and it seems that the insidious nature that lead to the Romanov fall has not yet been scrubbed clean from the castle walls.
For Everett, the time spent in Vanderhall is now taxing on his very life; too many days spent entirely indoors; trapped, now, for a few shakes more than two weeks.
"You shouldn't do that in here."
Klaus' words bring Everett's focus back into place; the book, left open in his hand where he mindlessly flipped to it; the contents of which are now far from his mind, the nature of the piece he plucked from one of the vast shelves in this Romanov library, bereft him now, even the reasoning as to why he picked it up in the first place -- the spine clasped in the palm of his hand, his pipe in the other; lifting the piece for another puff. He manages an exhale before he frowns at his brother, his brow creasing.
"Pardon?"
"Your pipe. The air is stale enough as it is." Klaus' response is grumble; and then another open book is slapped down in Everett's hand, turned to a particular page clearly for a particular reason, but Everett's dark eyes and frown follow his brother's retreating back instead of leading to the text below him. "What care have you of it?" There is an edge in Everett's voice -- he has grown to a dangerous state of claustrophobia. And his brother, for the huntsman that he is, is staying closer to his laces of civility than the second Price heir is managing.
For Everett, the time spent in Vanderhall is now taxing on his very life; too many days spent entirely indoors; trapped, now, for a few shakes more than two weeks.
"You shouldn't do that in here."
Klaus' words bring Everett's focus back into place; the book, left open in his hand where he mindlessly flipped to it; the contents of which are now far from his mind, the nature of the piece he plucked from one of the vast shelves in this Romanov library, bereft him now, even the reasoning as to why he picked it up in the first place -- the spine clasped in the palm of his hand, his pipe in the other; lifting the piece for another puff. He manages an exhale before he frowns at his brother, his brow creasing.
"Pardon?"
"Your pipe. The air is stale enough as it is." Klaus' response is grumble; and then another open book is slapped down in Everett's hand, turned to a particular page clearly for a particular reason, but Everett's dark eyes and frown follow his brother's retreating back instead of leading to the text below him. "What care have you of it?" There is an edge in Everett's voice -- he has grown to a dangerous state of claustrophobia. And his brother, for the huntsman that he is, is staying closer to his laces of civility than the second Price heir is managing.