The sound of pottery shattering echoed through the Drusztran Keep, breaking the otherwise still quiet of a late evening. Viktor var Ruthern stood heaving in the hallway of his home's quarters, shoulders raising then dropping, over the remains of some vase or other that he had smashed.
He brought the report up to his eyes to read once more, in vain effort. His hand closed, then gripped firm; crushing the paper in hand. Deaf to the concern of servants or anger of his family, he stormed off with his chin raised imperious... and seemingly wet eyes. He needed some cold air.
"Vy promised and ea believed, so many years ago. Nie tears will come from eam, Lorena..."
In spite of his words uttered in anger and frustration... grief found itself creeping into the Ruthern's heart.