Personal Duties

11

Resting on the left side of his torso, with his protruding shoulderblades visible and facing the man behind him; Leonan allowed his arm to be moved into place. He held still to his best ability, though he sensitively quivered at the touch to his vein.
The needle pierced his skin easily, and caused only a momentary discomfort. "I can't imagine you're as squeamish as I am with blood. You're close to Dragonair, you've probably both seen a lot of- ghn," Leonan flinched as the cold swab of alchohal brushed against his skin, before gauze tightly enveloped it.
"... - I wonder if I'm better off this way; nothing more than an ornament, you know? Rather than a warrior or a leader."
His eyes would softly flutter, and increasingly struggle to remain open, whilst his words were spoken in a groggy slur. Turning onto his back, his chest and ribs facing the ceiling, and visible above the covers, Leonan stretched out his arms, and turned his head to see Aaron. "Tell me the truth, you'd be speaking in confidence. Is Mateo competent? Should I have reason to distrust or fear him?"

A gentle, slow descent of snowflakes coated the damp and cold roofing, trim and detailing to the palace exterior. Windows were made translucent with frost, and any room too far from a fireplace was uncomfortable. A faint crackle and spark of fire erupted from a dwindling fire, the last one still burning on this wing of the palace. Around it was a vast library, and a more than enviable collection of art.
Above the mantle of the dying flame was a tall, grand portrait framed in ornate bronze. The portrait was of a woman; no older than forty with a youthful complexion and two empty, red irises. Her hair was a darker blonde than Leonan's, and came down much further than his, but the resemblance was striking. The expression she wore was neutral, or only faintly amused with narrowed eyes, and a single arched brow.