Konstantine | Royal Mage | Location: Castle - Upstairs
Mentions: Barnabas, Ophelia, Merde, Mortain, Shadow, Nightmare

Konstantine watched on with a blasé expression as the king stood tall and proud before his subjects, welcoming them most warmly to the festivities as if he weren’t rotting from the inside out. That yellow gaze is piercing as it watches Barnabas and his company sink back into the shadows before disappearing beyond the sight of the party-goes, and only then than does the lithe figure abandon his own darkened corner, his movements fluid and precise as he followed in his liege’s pawsteps; ignoring the startled gazes that followed him.

His pawsteps divert as they reach the hall where his own quarters lie, graciously provided a room within the castle in exchange for his services. Pushing the door open with an abnormally slender muzzle, he strides toward a table where a vial half-filled with a blood red liquid lays in wait for him, bubbling lightly at the top as if it were still simmering. Lifting it gently by a sturdy strap he’d woven around it for carrying, Konstantine made quick work of retracting his steps and arrived at Barnabas and Ophelia’s chambers with leisure steps.

Eyes scanning the other occupants of the room, and those who lingered outside, it appeared their king had drawn quite a crowd of concerned presences. Though for many of them, it was merely their job to be concerned. Golden-hued irises linger on Nightmare the longest, noting the way she held herself away from the rest while still maintaining her position. Court life evidently hadn’t been kind to the other wolfdog, a reality he is all too familiar with. A fit of coughing has his face quickly snapping back to the reason for his appearance, however, the king practically hacking up a lung before calling out for his physician.

Though his name was not among those requested, Konstantine follows after the dark behemoth, presenting his potion and nudging it forward with a paw. ”For strength, your majesty. It appears you will need it, and it should compliment your usual tonic well,” he remarks, his words still clear through a heavy accent and a slight incline of his head offered to Mortain in a show of respect.

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Spiro | Duke of the Trading District | Location: Dining Hall
Mentions: Theseus, Sigrún

This was an occasion for the ages, many would claim. When last did noble and common blood mingle so freely? When last, did an illegitimate child of royal bearing have the opportunity to claim the throne? Yes, indeed the next few days would bring with them much excitement and perhaps a distraction from the Isle’s rapid deterioration. Spiro, however, saw this all for what it was. The lithesome hound arrived with his mother and step-children in tow just in time to hear Baranbas’ speech before the Collie vanished from sight, hidden away from eyes that could spy weakness in his frail figure.

His own gaze narrows before the youngest of the children, a little border collie called Oliver, presses a cold pink nose into his elbow, causing him to start before gazing down at the pup. ”Yes, what troubles you, little lamb?” He asks with an uncharacteristic softness spared only for the children, Oliver’s chocolate eyes wide and unsure as they peer back at him before darting among the crowd, some of which had noticed their arrival and begun to gawk. It would be the first party they’d attended since Rosemary’s death and already the whispering had begun.

”Pay them no mind now. Whatever you hear, we know the truth, don’t we?” Once Oliver perks up and nods his understanding Spiro gives the lad a gentle nudge with his snout, sending him after his older sister who’d already situated herself around a plate of sweet rolls with a few other pups their age. He watches them for a time to ascertain the youths would be fine on their own before moving along, not seeking out anyone in particular as he moved through the throng of dogs. Or, perhaps that isn’t quite accurate. He wanted to get his eyes on some of those heirs, suss them out.

A loud crescendo of voices rising over even the chatter of the crowd, like many of the other party-goers, draws his attention to the commotion, and it isn’t long before he’s met with a familiar sight. Theseus. Up to yet more nonsense it would seem. How typical. Well, might as well start with the heir he knew, however limited and surface-level their acquaintanceship. He waits for the fluffy white dog to roll back onto her paws and introductions, or rather greetings it would appear, to be exchanged before approaching and clearing his throat, a haughty grin creeping across his muzzle and head held high. “Dear me, Theseus. I hope you don’t make a habit of plowing over your future subjects. You won’t be a very popular king.”