Fredric Feverbeck, Earl of Dorfen, has lived here for 30 years in exile. Once, he had been a young man of a pleasant countenance. Once, there had been pleasure in calling upon him, for he had been brother to the king and queen’s favourite: Elsa Feverbeck, Countess of Gannelfing-Wiesen. His elder sister had taken him into her care after he had offended the court by being himself. Something he had since not once dared to repeat.
Gannelfing is a pleasant little town, home to a castle his sister built. Its tower loomed over the streets, visible from practically anywhere. She had dismantled the local temple’s tower, taken its clock and mounted it on a tower subordinate to the main one. Chimes tell us, it is seven o’clock.
Fredric, or „my lord“, as his friends should like to call him, rises earlier than usual. An insolent ray of sunshine, accompanied by a few of his brethren, is creeping through the window. It woke him and now he is on his way downstairs, annoyed, but dressed.
“Good morning to you, too.“
The parrot flaps her blue wings. She is his only companion apart from servants of his sister who see to his being sufficiently fed at all times. Annoyed, but fed, Fredric gets up from the breakfast table. He takes one of the nice porcelain cups, embellished with the arms his parents had been granted by the late queen mother. He gently lets it crash on the hardwood floor.
“My Lord, my Lord!“
“Ah, frightfully sorry, Lully, terribly sorry.“
He pets the upset bird and calls out to the servant waiting in the hall to come clean up.
The Earl of Dorfen has his mind set on slowly destroying his parents inheritance. Determined to make his sister realise that what she has achieved was all due to herself and not owed to their wrongdoings. A part in their joint success story on which they always disagree.
The servant, this time. He beckons his Lord to the window.
“Pray look at this, my Lord“
“Why should I waste my time looking down at the street folk when I might as well…“
Stillness for awhile.
On the street. Or more correctly, where the one street meets the other, in a sort of y-shape. There was a house.
Not a big one, or a lordly one as his own.
Just a small one.
In the middle of the street.
“Oh no, the press is going to love this.”