Night fell over the hunting lodge, bringing with it a drop in temperature and a spike in royal insanity.
Cassian was pacing again. He was wearing his breeches and boots, but he had draped the fur duvet over his shoulders like a coronation robe.
"The vows," Cassian muttered, gesturing wildly with a piece of cheese. "They must be poetic. They must rhyme. 'Rowena, my dove, you fit like a... glove?' No. Too common."
Elian sat by the fire, mending a tear in his trousers with a bone needle he'd found in the emergency kit. "How about 'Rowena, my dear, your voice creates fear'?"
Cassian stopped. He looked at Elian with misty, adoring eyes. "Fear? Yes. The fear of losing her. Brilliant, Maid. You have the soul of a bard."
Elian poked himself with the needle. "Ow."
"I must practice," Cassian decided. He threw the cheese into the fire (a waste of 2 LP) and marched over to Elian. "Stand up, Scullery Maid. You will be her proxy."
