impersonal space

Torna's finest engineering built eclectic, geometric feats of architectural prowess in Auresco. Vaulted ceilings without visible bracing, impossibly unassuming alternating overhangs, sleek yet imposing towers, and a sense of openness despite the relatively small footprint of the city all made it quite the destination, across the desert.

You could hide fugitives in the city. Play hide and then go seek in the city. You could fit entire herds of Armu in the city and their great bulk would go unnoticed as they blended in, backs mossy green.

What a massive, miniature place at the Titan's tail's head.

Here in Aletta, the storeys of the manor had unremarkably average, if not low, ceilings (the Praetorium had been quite high, quite lofted, quite lofty), and the focus was on well-chosen stone and wood complements. It wasn't meant to stand out. It didn't need to. It sat at the edge of the Titan, a patently obvious port of call.

Though anyone could have business here, not many did. Whether that was because of a lack of favor on the part of the past Lord of Aletta, a lack of actual esteem toward Addam's capabilities currently, or a purposeful enclave-making on the bastard prince's part, Minoth didn't know. Regardless, it was so. All of Torna's excesses lay in the capital. Aletta was the land of the simple, the homey, the necessary; oh, noblest and free.

And yet.

It was a beautiful room Addam had shown him into, for sure, but Minoth still felt out of place.

(What or who did belong within the walls of Aletta Manor? Not Blades, surely, and surely not Flesh Eater Blades. The same old wine.)

He felt...out of scale. Too tall, oblique and inorthogonal.

It was a house, a home. A place of comfort. A place of infinite comforts, given how Addam had brought it off. So why was he so damn uncomfortable?

Addam had left him alone here, too. Not abandonment alone, just respectful alone. He'd lingered a little bit with the puppy-dog face, sure, hoping and praying that Minoth would like it and love it and want beyond wants to stay, but then he'd shown himself out. Dejectedly? Minoth was unsure.

Despite the low ceilings and warm colors (dark wood, blue blankets), the room was much more spacious than any he'd ever occupied in the Praetorium. Its corners seemed far away, its fixtures knelt and beckoning rather than stern and rejecting, marble planes and sharp edges.

Minoth realized that, at the very least, he could sit himself down. Take a load off, as Addam might say. Actually, as he himself might say, but he wouldn't, now. It felt wrong to unclothe himself, even at the level of his thoughts, here.

So Minoth crossed to the foot of the bed, and sat. The mattress gave obligingly, as it had been just waiting for someone so weary to sit their behind down upon it.

He really had to be out of sorts if he was personifying bedroom furniture, then, huh? Maybe, given another half-turn, the nightstand handles would start knocking out a greeting, and the lamp begin to flick on and off in time.

Shaking his head, Minoth chose instead to distract himself by stretching his arms in their shoulder sockets, crack a half a dozen or so of his knuckles. Imagine that he were anywhere but here, and then in due time figure out a plan for how to get there, instead.