~ Aʂԋҽɾ Bσʅƚσɳ ~
"Always be ready to be up to no good, makes life all the more enjoyable."
Hexcode: #DAA520
"Always be ready to be up to no good, makes life all the more enjoyable."
Hexcode: #DAA520
Nobody had seemed to be able to find the Royal healer since the incident involving Korgan, Tyann and him stumbling into the throne room, all of them drunk and making fools of themselves. The truth being that Asher Bolton hadn’t been as intoxicated as he had played himself out to be and nearly played up the part. Being a fool due to alcohol that someone else supposedly forced upon you was easily forgiven after all. Sneaking back into his room was child’s play, though living in a castle with hidden passageways did make such matters infinitely easier.
Asher had woken up early and in a rather poor mood. Leaving a note on his door before anyone else had woken up informing people to not disturb him unless someone was dying or the Empress needed him. Flipping said note would reveal that he expected Tempeste to check in on him to make sure he wasn’t wallowing because he was too pretty to be doing such a thing. Having no desire to leave his room for the immediate future, Asher saw no reason to hide his Telsenonian features, leaving his actual cat ears atop his head and matching tail out in the open. He hated keeping his tail hidden for so long and you really didn’t want to get him started on the fake human ears. Right now he had other frustrations to vent out and needed to get in some practice lest his skills dull even slightly.
Moving towards his wardrobe, Asher pulled at one of the wooden pegs on its side which made a soft clicking sound to unlock his hidden storage built behind the furniture piece. Gently moving the wardrobe on its concealed hinge revealed the small space built into the stone wall which housed the tools of the Assassin. Dozens of blades, vials of poisons, bolas, rope darts, and plenty more instruments of death all laid meticulously organized on shelves for easy access. Systematically, Asher began inspecting every piece of his collection. Removing any traces of dust from lack of use, sharpening edges and points that seemed even slightly dull, pulling bottles off the shelves that had expired and so on.
As he worked he couldn’t help remembering the anger and disappointment in Ivelda’s voice at his antics the previous day. His ears flicked at the memory while his tail began to swish back and forth in annoyance. He had done his duties to the letter and any act his empress deemed unbecoming of him resulted in scolding. Why couldn’t he have his fun? Between tending to everyone and Asher’s own attempts to cope with the deaths on his hands, he needed some form of escape.
He let out a frustrated huff as he looked at a rather brutal serrated knife he was cleaning now. One of the many tools taken from his nine teacher’s corpses. Nine masters of the arts of death that Ivelda had brought in to mold him into her hidden blade. Asher could still remember them all too well. Men and women once feared far and wide, each a master of their craft . . . . all killed by a child. The fact that he found a sick pleasure in killing his arguably abusive masters still left a bad taste in his mouth no matter how deterring their deaths might have been.
After what felt like hours of work, everything was neatly tucked back into their homes and hidden away. Asher threw himself onto his bed. ”I need a holiday . . . Just sneak out and maybe pretend to have been kidnapped.” He snorted and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. Like that would work, who could try abducting him and live to tell about it? The Telsenonian half heartedly let out a muffled yell and slapped his hands against the covers. Maybe just a break, or something to keep his mind off his current situation. Flipping to his back, blue eyes stared up at nothing in particular with an increasingly bored expression. ”Spirits . . . Give me SOMETHING to work with here so I don’t lose what little sanity I might have.”