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[hr][hr][h2][color=SteelBlue]Karl Müller-Hohenstein[/color][/h2][hr][hr][/center]

[i]"What a fucking circus."[/i] The thought had lingered at the forefront of his brain since the coffins first appeared at the doors to the Grand Cathedral. [i]"The pageantry wasn't enough when they were alive, now this shit."[/i]

He shifted on his silk cushion until his neck clicked and he let out a soft sigh of relief; instantly ruined by a pain somewhere else. [i]"When I die I hope they sling my body in the fucking river and get it over with."[/i]

Royal Archivist Karl Müller-Hohenstein, Archduke of the Stormlands, Duke of Steinland, and Lord-Admiral of the Starry Sea, had no illusions about his end. He was a cripple incapable of producing children. If one of his enemies didn't get him, he had no doubt Michaela was ruthless enough to remove him if she had too. Still, he hoped she would at least let him die in peace. 

Here, in this building, a monolith to Gods he did not believe in, he was at least as safe as one could be. No shortage of hidden daggers awaited his command and his spies had told him of no ill intent on the part of the Noble houses, yet. Yes, his official roll as the Royal Archivist might have died with the King but until a new King, or Queen, was chosen, the agents he had spent so many years cultivating and training would still report to him. 

He caught a man from one of the Northern houses glancing his way and flashed a smile of broken teeth. The man looked away quickly and Karl could not resist a mirthless chuckle [i]"No one likes a monster."[/i].

The Cathedral was emptying slowly, the heat and stink caused by so many bodies crammed into one space was finally easing and he was alone on his bench. Two soldiers stood by in Stormlands livery, their eyes never ceasing to rove the space around them.

"Bartholomew, help me up will you." Karl grunted at last to his man servant who had sat in front of him. The Lord of the Stormlands might not give a fig leaf for any sort of religion but his caretaker certainly did.

The man moved with a calm patience, offering an arm so that Karl could stand; sharp needles of pain beginning to shoot through his legs as the blood returned to him. His cane, a basic wooden affair that everyone assumed had a sword in it, was ready at hand.

[i]"A sword!"[/i] He had always privately laughed at the idea. [i]"What good would a sword do me? I suppose I could cut my own wrists in case of capture."[/i]

[i]Click.[/i] 

His left ankle clicked on every step, threatening to fold inward at any moment. It had happened more than once.

[i]Tap.[/i]

The sound of his cane on the finely polished marble floor, now scuffed by a thousand boots. 

[i]Drag.[/i]

His right foot, more or less a clubfoot if he was honest, dragged slightly behind him as he walked. 

The rhythm of his life accompanied him as he shuffled toward the Cathedral doors. He was well aware of the looks of pity from those who believed physical ability was all the mattered, and the sharper looks barely concealing wary watchfulness from those who knew just how dangerous the Cripple Lord really was; no secret was safe.

[i]"I could use a drink,"[/i] The thought was an idle one; his gums were hurting and running his tongue over them only irritated them more. [i]"Maybe if I drink enough I'll bloody well drown myself."[/i]

At that moment he caught a flash of red-hair among the crowd of nobles and he felt his heart swell with pride. There was no doubt in the minds of those who knew Karl just how important his daughter was. Not only did she prove that he had once been a real man - capable of loving a woman and giving her a child - but she gave him a reason to fight his way out of bed every morning and see to his duties as a father and lord.

And fight he did. On more than one occasion he awoke to a bed stained with his own shit, unable to get to the privy in time. Everything hurt, he had no balls anymore, and every waking moment was a trial in patience and self-reflection. 

Michaela gave him a reason to climb out of those soiled sheets. It would be easy to lie down and die and, as he watched her laugh at some joke, her white teeth flashing, he knew that he would do anything to see her happy. His own happiness was a forgone conclusion, it was dead and buried, but he could ensure a strong future for her. 

He looked about the Cathedral, the young would be Princeling was nowhere to be seen but Anyarama of the Crownlands was still nearby. She caught his gaze and inclined her head slightly, how bowed in return, as much as one could while holding a cane. Though none would care to admit it, whichever claimant could woo the Stormlands to their side would certainly carry the throne. 

He straightened up painfully; a crick had formed in his back and it protested as he began to walk again. He ignored it like so many of his other pains and shuffled onward, his black robe - trimmed with a grey/blue - slapping against his ankles as he went. Bartholomew and the guards fell in behind him he passed into the sun that streamed through the open doorway and into the fresh air beyond.


[hider=Summary]
[i]Karl is in pain as he reflects on how much he hates pageantry even while noting that the course of the Kingdom cannot be decided without his House. His love for his daughter is unquestioned and he privately reaffirms his promise that he will do whatever it takes to make her happy. [/i][/hider]