Arvid is headed to try out the mead, to get drunk. His father’s dead, after all and what a perfect time for it - the celebration wasn’t a total bust, but rather the opposite, and now that he’s said his peace, he can relax while scouting out potential for his Royal Court and his Regent.

Ah sir! Sir? There’s an unfamiliar, female voice calling behind him and the king slows, turning his head to look over his shoulder as the darker female approaches him. She comes from the south, Elysium, she tells him. He bows his head to her, although he’s the one who’s the king.

She is a Shadows.. Bane? He arches a brow, allowing citrus eyes to linger over her form. Patches of white, here and there, upon her shoulder; her ankle, her toes. Her other shoulder is brown, like some of the other colors in his own coat.

She’s a warrior, for Elysium? What an interesting rank name. He nods his head, ears swiveling. Elysium and Northfall have been allies for quite sometime now, though, have they not, Misses.. Fleetwood? He says softly, twitching his nose. My wife to be comes from your pack, after all, and I’m sure my father.. His voice trails off as a sudden wave of sadness and grief slams into him like a mac truck, and he takes a sharp inhale, but he feels like he's drowning, and -

.. and he realizes a bit too late that she was only trying to be nice. In her own way. Oh. But uh - yes. T-thank you. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. This was supposed to be my childhood. He looks at her with a longing expression, like someone’s stolen from him. His voice cracks, and he flattens his ears. He'd been keeping it together so well, up until now.

I-I've said too much. I.. I should go. Drown his sorrows in mead, or a woman, or something.