*For context, this is a conceptual piece for what I'd imagine Arthur would turn out to be.*

Foolish it would be to assume that the expression of Arthur Audun would not be one of perpetual annoyance. Frozen like marble in a grimace of distaste, as though he had drunk deep from a chalice of something most sour.

His mother had bestowed the frowning crease between his eyebrows. Yet his father had given him the laugh lines around his mouth.

In the Guardroom, just as Elsa slipped the two keys down into her pouch as Jan described his daily work and Haarion was wondering if she was wearing anything under that skirt, a voice was heard from the doorway.

Alas, it looks like I have forgotten about this little book of mine, as it got stacked under maps, land writs and building plans and so on. I found it when organizing things for the Inn.

There is so much to write about, I know not where to start. Perhaps I will start with the one constant on my mind.

Demlemoth

Bexly found a quiet little spot by a fire in the back of The Prancing Pony. It was warm and cozy and she was feeling the same as she wrote and rewrote in her book. She hummed a little tune and continued to scribble away.

Míricambo is hardly able to make out the form of his father just ahead of him for how harsh and heavy the icy winds whip across their path. With every footstep, he feels himself sinking deeper into the cold. Being so focused on keeping his arms raised to protect his face from the sting of the ice, he does not realize how fiercely he is trembling, or how loud the chattering of his teeth overpowers the roar of the wind.