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Your aunt's office chair was uncomfortable. The time you'd spent lodged in it since you arrived and seized control of the estate had left you with a distinct disagreement with sitting in it too long, and not the least of which because some distant part of you expected her to walk through the door and see you in it... You doubted you'd be in any sort of trouble, but it was terribly embarassing to think about. That was, of course, ridiculous. The woman could barely maintain consciousness, and there was no way she was leaving that bed sort of a sudden and frightening affinity for Dryad allowing her to make use of the seeds planted in her dismembered limbs as ligaments. Even then, you're not actually sure what an affinity for Dryad might <span class="mu-i">do</span> in regards to Nymph's Wood, seeing as how Dryad itself seemed violently averse to the stuff.
Why? Fantastic question. One of a closetful you would like answered, but not one of the most immediately pressing ones; No, what you needed to know now was to what extent Artemis had threaded its roots through your own family, and by extension, the rest of this territory. The motley assortment of healers who had gathered here to treat your bedridden aunt were a good enough place to start as any, but most of that process was being left up to Ari - A task she had rather possessively asserted her right to, against Rinnier's better judgement.
The disagreement had been a short one, and you'd not heard anymore of it from the former princess afterwards. Whatever other thoughts she no doubt had on the matter, Rinnier had kept herself busy tightening security around the estate and busying herself trying to research... Something. A pet project of hers which kept her sequestered away in the family archives when not otherwise occupied.
Last you heard she was having the knights remove the Nymph's Wood from the archives and placed outside. Probably for the best.
That left you and the knock on the door, which admitted, at your somewhat distracted leisure, an older woman sporting a thick, scarlet braid that looped loosely around her shoulders. The guard escorting her stepped aside, garnering a polite nod from his charge as she left them at the threshold and stepped forward. Aged skin, worn and wrinkled, poked past a thickly woven wool shawl as she crossed the room at a measured pace. You couldn't hazard to guess her age, simply because you were realizing you just hadn't <span class="mu-i">met</span> many people that were well into their twilight years. Seventies? Eighties? Late sixties?
Whatever the era, she seemed in no hurry, and when she finally did arrive at the front of your aunt's desk and bothered to look down at you, you found that she took an equal amount of time simply... Observing you. The crow's feet around her eyes deepened as she looked you over, taciturn, even as she lingered a moment overlong on your Shade wreathed hand.
