[Kenkuroi Mithania]

Mid cycle of Aperitus, Era II of the Celestine Mandate, XIV Era PF
Darkening, Moonwillow
Phase I: Unbinding


"Morendil!" A voice, soft and serene, melodious like a bard’s broke the named person out of his reverie.

"Uh, what?!" came the reply, harsh, hoarse and deep.

The former, feminine, a pure Sylrosian born and bred. The latter, masculine, a young half elf with striking elvish features and an exotic blend of human origins which guessing from his pale olive skin, one of Kemitish roots.

"What are you waiting for? Go in and talk to your atar," the female elf whispered, gently prodding the boy towards a closed and shut door.

"Must I? I don’t…." Kenkuroi, or Morendil as he was better known in this part of the region, whimpered in protest but quickly hushed down as his female counterpart's eyes narrowed down on him.

She was the same elf he first saw sitting beside his brother during his first Pracenda in Moonwillow more then one era back. She was also the same elf who woke him up in his first brightening of his new life, and was the same person who brought him the bad news of his brother’s departure. She was beautiful, even by elvish standards, a testament to Moonwillow’s reputation for beauty and art, and no amount of facial distortion could mar the pretty elven face for it wasn’t her frowning or growing anger that scared the half elf into obedience, but the small satchel of tobacco she held up in her right hand.

Do this….. do that….. or no tobacco…. Choose…..

Sadly, extortion was the only way to get the unruly, wild and obnoxious half breed to obey and cooperate as well as keep him in his place….

Sighing heavily, the half elf slid opened the sliding door and entered the private chamber of Llorinal Mithania, Lord of Moonwillow, his father.

The room reeked heavily of that infamous liquor, Primquist, as well as a variety odor of cheap booze and judging by the candlemark, the Lord would be half drunk by now. It had been this way ever since that fateful day, the day Mithania fell, where within the space of a few candleflicker, the Combine saw the downfall of three Lords; two into prison, one into depression. Though Llorinal survived the Combine’s onslaught, he died in spirit and mind, and thus has relegated himself to much drinking, cooped up in his chamber, refusing company, and unwilling to do anything.

“Llorinal!” Morendil called his father, by name, without any respectful title, as he closed the door behind him. By Phedos, he hated his father. Just seeing how weak and cowardly the elf was made him sick to the stomach. And he knew or at least felt that his father hated him as much. After all, wasn’t he nothing more than a reminder of past mistakes? Like some excess fat that won’t go away….

“What did you call me for?” the prodigal son continued, his tone stiff and cold. It wasn't a question, it was a demand, although no doubt both father and son already knew the reason they were in each other’s presence this darkening, a rare occasion indeed. For the few loyal clansmen left had been discussing it last pracenda, and last last pracenda, and last last last pracenda, and so on, almost since the beginning of summer, the idea of having the half-breed learn an art of their once grand House. Some frail delusions that it could calm the restless boy by keeping him busy, so called 'Mithaniarize' him, and hopefully break the frosty relationship between the Lord and his bastard son.

Morendil was rigid where he stood as he awaited his father’s response; blue eyes, cold and hard, stared sharply at the older elf he should be calling as father. One hand in pocket, the other casually ran through his messy maroon hair, the color supposedly a little lighter compared to Llorinal’s auburn bangs. The difference though was minimal as many have come to comment on how uncanny the similarities were, both physical and character-wise, between the fallen Lord and his known second son..... to an extent some have labeled Morendil, a younger version of Llorinal, much to the chagrin of the half elf.