Arlon shifted uncomfortably on the padded chair, his rough palms gripping his knees as if afraid to soil the furniture. The fabric was soft , too soft for the likes of him, and he found himself wondering how much it must have cost.
It wasn't as if the room was richly decorated like the royal court, but to a man whose house walls were of hay and timber, even the sight of a painted beam and cushions on a seat was luxury enough to set him on edge.
He tried to sit straight, his boots awkwardly tucked under him, while his eldest son Grev stood beside him, his single arm hanging rigidly at his side.
Behind the table sat a man who looked as if he had never swung a scythe in his life. His robe was a crisp beige, the sleeves neatly folded back to reveal soft hands stained faintly with ink. His hair was combed back and held in place with oil.
"Good morning, Mr…?" the man began, breaking Arlon from his uneasy thoughts.
