In Media Res.

[Kylerryth]

"The Governor is up to something," said the man seated before Aston Jylan Aldred, the Lord of Aldred.

The aforementioned did not raise his head to look at the man; he reacted not at all, really, beyond lifting the corner of the page he was writing on to, presumably, check something on the page below it. A moment later the quill resumed, its feather twitching, the ink on its nib forming a precise yet elegant script on the snow-white parchment.

Then: "What prompts such a statement from a man such as yourself?" the Lord of Aldred inquired.

The man, like Aston, did not react immediately. Instead he shifted on the red leather chair, sinking further into it -- it was deep, ample, and comfortable; and it was very easy to be lured into a false sense of security. The man had no worry of that, however, knowing he had set himself on Aldred's stage and, despite appearances, knowing he was under intense scrutiny at this very moment.

So he waited, but did not balk; he merely wondered if he could provoke some sort of impatient look or gesture from the other man, though he knew it futile. Thus far he had not succeeded in any previous attempt. This attempt fared no better: the Lord of Aldred wrote and wrote, and as the nib dried he paused to unstopper a glass jar full of ink and refresh it; and then he went on writing, seemingly oblivious.

The man grunted, the kind of grunt not meant to be heard by anyone but oneself, to collectively express one's disappointment and frustration in response to a situation but also one's good humor about the whole thing.

"I can't rightly explain it," he said. "It's a feeling, a feeling in my gut. He's up to something, but I don't know what and I doubt I'll know until it actually happens."

Apparently something he said had struck a chord, for the Lord of Aldred paused again, this time to wipe the quill's nib on a towel and then carefully slide it into a slim leather sheath. A minor adjustment to the ink jar followed, Aldred having been displeased with its proximity to the parchment; and then, the white wings at his temples fairly gleaming in the morning light streaming through the uncovered windows, Aston leaned back in his chair and gazed at the man before him, seeing him, recognizing him, weighing him to the ounce and then mulling over what he had -- or had not -- discerned from this examination. The man could tell all of this from the subtle signs he had learned to detect on the Lord of Aldred's face, and he could also tell the heir was interested in what he had to say, albeit distantly.

"Explain to the best of your ability," said Aston, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and lacing his fingers together in front of him, just over his abdomen. "Elaborate if you must, but please mind the time. It is almost lunch."

The man could not help but grin. The Lord of Aldred, the picture of health for his age and station, mentally and physically, concerned about missing a meal? Certainly he knew Aston to be eccentric in regard to punctuality, but this was a first even for him.

"Well," said the man, imitating Aldred's pose of contemplative comfort and seemingly detached interest. He affected a casual, wondering tone. "Well. Where do I begin?"

"At the beginning. I will excuse your cavalier attitude on account of your overall usefulness, but do not mistake it for clemency; you are not impervious to my discipline, however much I would dislike to impose it upon you. Should you fall from my grace, though, I will see to it that you are cared for by a woman of modest mental capacity so that at least one person will appreciate your wretched sarcasm and tolerate your particular brand of dull comedy."

The man grinned again. He knew Aston was trying to goad him; this was part of their working relationship, as it were.

He knew something else, too: he had the Lord of Aldred hooked like a fish.

Now to reel him in, and get him really and truly interested.