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Alistair - Warden-Constable? High Constable? He really could not be sure of his proper title anymore. Too many Warden leaders dead, and he here in Weisshaupt to pass the news on and possibly take charge of the Order. In some fashion. Not that the First Warden liked that at all, but then he was one of two Wardens to stop the last Blight, and one of very few to protest that blood magic absurdity that Clarel had cooked up when everybody had started hearing their Callings all at once (highly suspect, if you asked him, but of course few people outside of Vigil's Keep did, up till now), and of course he had persuaded the Inquisitor not to completely dismiss the Wardens as fools and buffoons after that debacle, so really he was in quite the unique place to guide the Order. And certainly no one could say he hadn't done the Order a great deal of good, so his position was quite strong.
Leading, though...Maker's breath, but Neria was so much better at it. He blotted the quill in his hand and held it poised over the parchment. There were all these life-altering decisions to be made here - did the Wardens need reform, restructuring, who among the recruits should be promoted to fill the absences in the chain of command, should he really be attempting to overthrow the First Warden for failing to control Clarel, even though the man had already consented to make him his second in command? Alistair was not keen on the idea, but had to admit the faction that pushed for it had their reasons.
He groaned. "Politics. And here I thought I was well out of them when I abdicated the throne. If you could see me now, Eamon, you would be laughing. Bitterly, I might add, but still in 'ah, the sweet sweet irony of it all' fashion. Ugh."
And now he had dripped ink all over the parchment. Grand. Alistair made a face at his hand, as if it was to be blamed for his wandering mind, and blotted out the mark before moving down a bit to start again.
"My dear Neria," he read aloud as he wrote.
***
His latest letter finished and sealed and ready to be sent to Neria, he retired, curling around the extra pillow in his rather overly large and fancy bed in the chambers of the High Constable. He missed her bitterly, the feeling coming in flashes throughout the day, when he'd want to ask her advice on a particularly thorny problem, or when he'd think of something witty to say and be met only with the First Warden's blank stare. But at night...well, it was rather worse at night. Going to sleep alone and waking up alone, entirely bereft of both his wife and the large slobbering mabari who he'd come to simply accept as another bedfellow was a misery of the most acute kind. He tried not to think about the ache in his chest too much, or he'd never get any sleep at all, and that wouldn't do.
He must have dozed off at some point, because when he woke, he certainly wasn't in Weisshaupt anymore.
Leading, though...Maker's breath, but Neria was so much better at it. He blotted the quill in his hand and held it poised over the parchment. There were all these life-altering decisions to be made here - did the Wardens need reform, restructuring, who among the recruits should be promoted to fill the absences in the chain of command, should he really be attempting to overthrow the First Warden for failing to control Clarel, even though the man had already consented to make him his second in command? Alistair was not keen on the idea, but had to admit the faction that pushed for it had their reasons.
He groaned. "Politics. And here I thought I was well out of them when I abdicated the throne. If you could see me now, Eamon, you would be laughing. Bitterly, I might add, but still in 'ah, the sweet sweet irony of it all' fashion. Ugh."
And now he had dripped ink all over the parchment. Grand. Alistair made a face at his hand, as if it was to be blamed for his wandering mind, and blotted out the mark before moving down a bit to start again.
"My dear Neria," he read aloud as he wrote.
***
His latest letter finished and sealed and ready to be sent to Neria, he retired, curling around the extra pillow in his rather overly large and fancy bed in the chambers of the High Constable. He missed her bitterly, the feeling coming in flashes throughout the day, when he'd want to ask her advice on a particularly thorny problem, or when he'd think of something witty to say and be met only with the First Warden's blank stare. But at night...well, it was rather worse at night. Going to sleep alone and waking up alone, entirely bereft of both his wife and the large slobbering mabari who he'd come to simply accept as another bedfellow was a misery of the most acute kind. He tried not to think about the ache in his chest too much, or he'd never get any sleep at all, and that wouldn't do.
He must have dozed off at some point, because when he woke, he certainly wasn't in Weisshaupt anymore.
