[P] Throne for the Game

[Isorath]

I S O R A T H THE LONE WOLF DIES // THE PACK SURVIVES The air is filled with the smell of incense, the rich notes of myrrh & frankincense accenuated by undertones of vanilla, patchouli and lilac. Carefully tended to occasionally by a lone white figure in the cosiest nook of the vast library. Claimed with purpose, Isorath for all his splendor and vanity, enjoys privacy more often than not. Laid upon the plush pillows and cushions, decorated with constellations and silver tassels, the winged Kirin works with a careful tenderness not known to many. His hair ornaments lay glinting in the warm candlight, cast aside to allow the swathes of silver to cascade free like rivers of starlight across himself and the stone. Here he is relaxed, surrounded by time and history, her secrets his to find and rediscover. The Sage reads diligently from the time worn books, delving further into the intricate history of Denocte, silent except for the articulate scratch of quill against parchment. Thoughts a thousand miles away to the current happenings of Denocte and her sister and brother Courts. Like many unpleasant things, the uncomfortable itch persisted in the back of his mind, reminding him that he would be cursed to ponder over them soon enough. There is no escaping the mounting tension, the former king in him sneered, the exasperated advisor in him heaved a sigh instead. He has seen the rise and fall of nations, and sat in the gilded seat himself. He knows with crystal clarity the coming days will be anything but like they are now. The Sage will not be able to sit in this grand libary as he does now, a welcome guest. Isorath paused in his writing for a moment, Calligo's name freshly written upon the crisp paper, the beginning of his journey to articulate her ethereal power. His eyes instead found themselves glancing out of the window, past the three headed dragon who held the burning incense in it's grasp. It's later than he expected, he noted to himself idly, the moon is seated in her lofty throne. It had been sunset when he'd retired to the library with polite farewells and excuses. A break wouldn't be bad, he supposed, glancing back down to the neat stack of parchment filled with his writings, and at the tome he had sank himself into with abandon. Isorath has written enough to compose a codex, filled with his findings and flourished with his own thoughts and opinions. Occasionally, there is a drawing of a relic or an important face between the flowing ink. Shifting in place to prepare tea, his set up is cozy, but practical. A tea pot to brew with and a platter filled with delectable sweets to nibble at should the mood take him, pillows to relieve the ache and tension from being laid down too long. Designed with a long night in mind, adrift in the time ways and thoughts of others. As he waited for his tea to brew, his teke reached for one of the peach coloured sweets, popping it into his mouth as he returned his attention to Calligo's tapestry in the sky. @Reichenbach — hopefully this is okay! <3