The Regent thought he might like Delumine's gardens more than the castle, she'd said as much on first delivering him to the Library, but there's always been something hauntingly beautiful about medieval era constructions to the mule. He's fascinated by them, by their extreme contrasts, how these massive fortresses of apparently plain, roughly cut stone held together by crude cement so often hide the most extravagantly rich and decorated interiors, much the same as later renaissance pirates cannily buried their priceless treasures on unassuming spits of sandbar in the middle of the ocean.

Maybe it's that he fancies himself a bit of a castle that way, with all his valuable assets hidden behind a blocky face and comically long ears. Whatever the reason, he does enjoy the castle, walking leisurely up and down the long corridors, occasionally pausing to inspect a painting or a carving, to admire the tenacity of the creeping ivy vines that wriggle their way into ever-widening cracks in the mortar.

He likes the way sunlight spears into the loftily roofed chambers in visible rods of brilliance that shimmer with motes of dust as he passes and wonders idly if any original panes of stained glass might still be in tact somewhere among the outer rooms. That would be lovely to see, he thinks. So often these fragile relics deteriorate to nothing, either through violence or simply the faults of long outdated crafting methods.

As he wanders, Willfur's large, narrow hooves ring on the cobble floor, not by force, but weight, and not so loud as to be disturbing, but with enough noise to gently remind the otherwise silent ruins that they are not yet dead and abandoned.



"Speaking."

Willfur recognizes the Sovereign immediately. Ipomoea, with winged hooves and a bold snowcap marking laid over his shoulders and hips like an exquisitely white cloak, has been a prominent figure in the records of Delumine for some time, climbing the ranks, engaging in war, and eventually, taking the mantle of King. Caught by surprise, the mule's heart stutters a little in response, an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty churning toward anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

He's met powerful, culturally significant figures more than once in his life - a few more memorable than others - but he's never been concerned with how he might be received by one, until now. When they'd welcomed him, he stayed and explored, and when they'd not, he simply moved on. He'd never carried any hard feelings about it either way, though some found that difficult or even impossible to believe. There's just always been more of the world for him to see. Why should he desperately cling to a place he's unwanted when there are endless possibilities laid out in every direction? He'd never seen any sense in that, so it's an utterly foreign concept for him to realize, now, how sheltered by and tethered to the Library he feels, what a loss it would be if he were banned from it.

He's spent more than a year in Novus whole, venturing out at regular intervals to placate his curious nature, sometimes disappearing for several days at a time even, but always returning to roam the shelves of the Library, growing more and more content there with each passing hour of study. He likes the close, quiet air, as if the paper and cushions and leather bindings are continuously absorbing the stories around them, one thought at a time. He likes the tall windows looking out onto the gardens and the smell of oak and cedar and pine burning in the hearths built into several of the private rooms. He's made friends with the foxlike keepers, soft coated and earthy smelling when ruffled by an affectionate muzzle, which he often provides. No one had ever suggested he leave, but he hadn't really asked or given them an opportunity to either, and he fears the omission has gone on long enough to merit an insult now, if someone were inclined to take offense to such things. Confronted with the possibility, he finds that he does, desperately, want to stay.

Willfur smiles politely, accepting the invitation to come abreast and nodding in acknowledgement. "Good morning... Sir." He adds the honorific a little awkwardly, but sincerely, staring down at the Golden Orchid bloom and trying to temper his thoughts with some sense of decorum before making a complete fool of himself. "I've seen the species before, but none so large or bright as this. It's beautiful." He states simply, bending his head to brush one nostril against the velvet petals and wearing a thin dusting of yellow pollen on the ends of his whiskers when he draws back.

He starts to form the words of some stiff, ridiculously formal sentiment about Delumine being a good place to grow, but mercifully, he sneezes, stopped short and laughing self-deprecatingly as he tries to quickly wipe his nose on one knee and compose himself. "I'm sorry. I've been a little anxious to meet you, admittedly." He hesitates just long enough to inhale deeply, then rushes on, watching the other stallions reaction from the corner of his eye. "Uhm, I don't know what sorts of protocols there are for membership in the Courts, but I've been hanging around for quite a while now - I hope you don't mind - and I'd really like to stay, officially, I mean. I've met the Regent, Thana - though she didn't tell me she was Regent - and she's been..." He searches for the right words. "Encouraging, in her own way." She's refrained from eating him, at least - twice - and saved him from himself once. She's the one that brought him here, and thinking of that, he wonders how he might thank her properly. "I think I could be of use." He adds this only because he thinks it a requirement of not being violently thrown from the premises, and hopes it's enough.


"SPEAKING"

The Sovereign's quiet nonchalance is somehow more intimidating than if he'd been stereotypical, loud and domineering. It's unexpected, drawing the mule even farther into unfamiliar territory, and utterly unreadable, leaving tiny moments of emptiness between them, the monarch's lack of reaction as silent visually as any thoughts he might have are audibly. Only one ear gently tipped in the mules direction gives him any indication of being heard over the delicate beauty of ivy and flowers, and it's precious little in the face of his anxiety.

Conversely, Willfur is - and has always been - an open book. He values honesty and he offers it without reserve as a consequence, in everything that he does, but especially his feelings, which are deep and uncompromising. He does not hide his uncertainty, nor the way that his eyes follow only the tricolored lines of brow and shoulder beside him, all concern for the castle and its treasures temporarily forgotten. That so many do hide their emotions and hold their inner machinations shrouded behind diversion and omission has always been an unnerving - if begrudgingly accepted - truth to him. It's as if they attempt to conceal the real them and present something else, something other, leading to the question of why? and secondarily, where do they get the energy?

He fidgets, a small bell tinkling quietly from the fraying braid in his tail, the noise a welcome distraction. He should redo that, he thinks, eyeing the neatly spaced button braids along the other stallion's neck when at last, he's answered, and not with the accusation or annoyance he's feared. There is no test, no scouring of resumes or bargaining against perceived offenses. It's as if the other stallion has known all along about the mule in his midst - how could he miss him, really - and accepted his presence long ago. Maybe he has, to already know his name and what he's been up to. Perhaps Thana... well, he's heard some things, but he's too polite to ask and it's not his business, anyway.

"Yes!" He confirms, "And th-an-k you!" The high, splitting syllable almost catches in his throat, almost, but he swallows it down, relief thick and sweet on his tongue. "Really, thank you." It seems like such a simple thing, and maybe it is, but he's grateful nonetheless. To him, it is a big thing. It's the only thing he's truly wanted in a long time.

"Oh, I've met a few unpleasant sorts," He admits, the auburn streak down his back twitching out of line, memories of bat fangs and trickster ghosts, angry, red-streaked mares and golden eyed stallions with a bit too keen an interest still fresh in his mind. "But for the most part Novus is full of bright and interesting characters. I like to think I learn something new from each of them, and I enjoy it."

Relaxed and unguarded now, he's at a loss when Ipomoea's final comment lands, deceptively casual, yet heavy with meaning. "A champion?" He repeats, frowning slightly, one ear falling humorously askew in thought. "I'm... I don't have a particular set of skills, but I'm a friendly face." He smiles to illustrate. "Sometimes that helps diffuse things, a little. I have a strong shoulder and a keen ear. I like to think and observe things, and I like people, despite their best efforts to be unlikable at times. If any of that sounds like something you could use, I'm happy to offer it."



"speaking"

The mule's smile broadens, joy and appreciation shining through the brown of his eyes, brightening the color to a warm, copper hue, as if the metaphorical flame of his heart were a physical thing, stoked high in excitement and rising to illuminate his expression from within. "Yes! I accept." He's breathless again, genuinely thrilled with how well this is going, and when the Sovereign's rose red eyes meet his own, he thinks them only gauging, astute enough to be taken as a final judgement, but not so sharp as to be critical or malignant.

Willfur lets him look. He has nothing he wants to hide, at the bottom of it, and if the other stallion were to spot something repellant enough to dissuade him now, well, that's his prerogative. "Thank you." He nods, dipping his chin in the stoic, rigorously formal way that men do when trying to express emotions deemed too soft or effusive for serious business.

Willfur is the hugging type, himself. He finds that a good forehead press or clasping of necks can communicate even more than words or visible expression, and sometimes more succinctly. Some things in life just have to be felt, he's convinced, and it's only through a long and awkward series of misunderstandings that he's been trained to reserve such things for second or third meetings, though he still doesn't see any sense in it. "I'll do everything I can."

There's more he wants to say, questions he wants to ask - so many questions - but he hasn't missed the air of distraction around the King of Flowers, the way that he seems to be having more of a conversation with himself than with Willfur. There are things at work here he's not privy to, and though he'd like to be one day, he's never been one to topple a wall all at once, opting instead to invest the time and care it takes to gently chip away the mortar between the stones, letting them fall free when they choose, whole and undamaged. "Thank you for your time." He says, stepping away, one ear still trained on the snowcapped stallion in case he's misread the flow of the conversation, but when else follows, he exits the corridor, wandering back into the quiet labyrinth of the castle and his own thoughts.



"speaking"