Time: 11:30am
Location: Edin Theater
Interaction: @Helo Callum @Silverpaw Wulfric
Mention: @Samreaper Kazumin


A deep, bellowing laugh burst from the king’s chest as he finally heard words worthy of listening to from his youngest son. The laughter was, loud, crude, and entirely unrestrained. He slapped his knee hard enough that some of his remaining popcorn toppled onto the floor, but he paid no mind. "Finally! Something worth listening to out of your mouth, boy!" he roared, voice thick with amusement.

He then leaned forward, his voice lowering just enough,"They’re good for two things, Callum.” He raised two thick fingers, then dropped one. “And talking ain't one of ‘em.” Another wicked chuckle left his lips as he leaned back again, clearly pleased with himself.

Alibeth stiffened, her grip on her wine glass tightening just slightly. She did not dignify Edin’s crude remark with a response, instead choosing to take a slow sip of her wine, masking whatever reaction truly lay beneath.

Then in the brief pause that followed the applause after Drake’s performance, Callum had presented a question in a manner that made Edin’s brows raise.

Edin’s chewing halted, a greasy hand frozen mid-air as Callum actually called him "Father"—and with respect, no less. Then, a booming cackle erupted, nearly choking him on popcorn. He pounded his chest, wine sloshing dangerously in his goblet as he howled with laughter.

“Oh! Oh, responsibility, he says! From a monkey!” He jabbed Alibeth’s arm, nearly knocking her drink. “You hear that? By the Gods, the boy’s a comedian now!”

Still shnorting, he squinted at Clarence, tilting his head. “Huh. Stands straighter than you.” A dramatic sip of wine and a mocking grin followed.. “Tell me, son—does it bathe? Or is it filthy just like you?” Alibeth hushed him as Anastasia approached the stage and he relented, “Fine, fine, keep the little rat. But if it shits in the castle, you’re cleaning it up.”

As Anastasia took center stage and began her speech, Edin did not register a single word. His focus remained solely on his popcorn, his hand digging greedily into the golden bowl of his precious butter nuggets as if the supply might suddenly vanish. Instead of taking more bites, he tilted the entire bowl toward his face, pouring the kernels directly into his open mouth like a starving beast. The excess tumbled down his chin, bouncing off his robes, yet he remained undeterred.

Then, without warning, a deep, guttural growl erupted from his throat—a grotesque, primal sound of satisfaction. A few nobles seated near underneath the royal box whipped their heads around in alarm, their brows furrowed in confusion at the unsettling noise. But Edin paid no mind, still gulping down his feast with the gusto of a man who believed himself entitled to every pleasure life had to offer.

Meanwhile, beside him, Alibeth was watching their daughter. For the first time that evening, there was a flicker of something different. Briefly, a faint, barely perceptible smile touched her lips.

As the performance unfolded, both Alibeth and Edin remained relatively silent—save for the relentless crunching of popcorn from the king, his chewing the only consistent noise breaking their quiet.

Alibeth’s brows furrowed the moment the play took a turn. Her lips pursed in mild distaste, her expression flickering between confusion and a deep-seated dislike for the odd, performance.

“Strange,” she murmured once it finally ended, her voice barely audible over the sound of the audience’s applause. She recalled seeing Kazumin swirl Anastasia around the ballroom during the first event of the season, and her fingers curled subtly against the armrest. “What a ridiculous, pitiful little story.”

Meanwhile, Edin sat dead still, his face awash with emotion. His popcorn lay forgotten, his goblet of wine resting precariously against his knee, completely untouched.

Then, suddenly—
A loud, ugly snivel.

“A MASTERPIECE!”


The theater fell silent for a brief, stunned moment as Edin’s voice BOOMED from the royal box. His eyes shimmered with tears, and with a dramatic sniffle, he swiped a buttery, greasy hand across his face, smearing it over his cheeks like war paint.

“The boy! The BOY playing the puppet!” He gasped, clutching his chest. “A genius! A VISIONARY! Never before have I seen such grace, such artistry! The EMOTION! The SORROW! The AGONY OF EXISTENCE!”

A loud hiccup shook his massive chest, and suddenly he was gripping Alibeth’s wrist, shaking it with feverish excitement. “I must have him at the banquet tonight! No—NO! I MUST OWN HIM!”

Alibeth yanked her hand away with a withering glare. “He is a person, Edin. Not a prize goat.”

Edin wasn’t listening. He shot up from his seat, nearly toppling his goblet, and waved his hands wildly at the guards near the entrance.

“Find that boy—FIND HIM AT ONCE! BRING HIM TO ME! I want to see him perform for ME! Tonight! TOMORROW! EVERY DAY!”

A dramatic sniff. Another loud wail. He collapsed back into his seat, shaking his head as if the weight of the world was upon him.

“A sad little puppet…” he whispered, clutching his chest, utterly consumed by the tragedy.

Alibeth grimaced and turned away, covering her face.