Lord Xanthios' beard, white and as fluffy as the unruly mane of a sheep, seemed to fill the room as he pulled off his heavy helm and set himself at the table. As he sat, his hand instinctively went to his neck, his fingers brushing the skin as if checking for a wound. For a moment, he reached for the small leather collar box he had worn for most of his life, the one that held the mummified index finger of his brother, only to remember a second too late that he had finally set it aside.
And for good reasons.
"With Lord Xanthios seated at last, we may progress," the Prince said with a thin smile. He took the lead, popping a whole shelled boiled egg into his mouth and following it with a hunk of bread, chewing with the focused energy of a man who knew his time was short.
The others needed no further invitation to dine.
