"You've been staring there for quite some time now, my lady. Perhaps you should commission a statue, before you become one yourself?"

It had all started back when King Yonith came to the throne through blood and majesty, declaring himself Kind and sacrificing the world around him to feed the fire of his dark empire. It was well known that, while the king himself was by no means defenseless, more fearsome was the guard dog that he kept chained to his shadow, a swordsman of puissant skill and a professional skulk who stalked the shadows of the castle nigh-invisibly, protecting his majesty with a deft hand and dagger when necessary. He was known as Drail, and whether or not that was his name or his title was not known, and the mystery of his position lent much of the power that came with it-he was a shadow, a ghost, a phantom haunting the castle and guarding the king's interests, and he was much feared as the King's right hand.

But ultimately, he had failed. What had become of him few could say, but all knew that when the young Mytorare ascended the throne, there was a new Drail behind her while she did it. Where the first had been massively muscled, wielded a greatsword with all the skill of a master soldier and stood behind the king and queen silently, this new Drail was lithe, elegant and rail thin. The only thing that remained the same between them was the mask they both wore, one of steel and marked, not with the features of a man, but of a carved demon, with a wicked smile set beneath two rows of eyes. That it was the same mask was clear, for there was a scratch where a blade had cut it that was maintained throughout.

It was rumored now that this new Drail was no man but a mystical creation, for his skin was never shown--black gloves adorned his hands, running beneath the cuffs of his shirt, and a gorget covered his throat up running up beneath the mask. and long black hair hung to cover the rest of his head. He wore a color that complimented the queen's attire when in public, and at the moment indeed he wore an elegant tunic engraved with silver thread atop a slightly ruffled black shirt. Where the first Drail had been a behemoth in a black cloak, this one was a wraith of social grace and poise, the only hint of danger visible a long, thin wrought silver rapier at his side.

And now he stood at the door of her room, no clasp of the door heard to echo his entrance and no footsteps heard to mark his passing, as per usual. He looked to her from behind the mask, the occasional hint of bright, vibrant blue in one of the eyes sockets when she looked at him properly the only hint of humanity in him besides the cool humor and elegant speech projected through the mask.

"Is there something wrong, my lady, that I might help you with? It's a shame, to eyes such as yours cast down with sorrow."

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