One would expect a writer would be more skilled at holding a pen. The ink blot on this particular parchment mocks that prejudice.

With a soft click of his tongue, a sound far too quiet to be learned from genuine irritation gained during life, Anthemion reaches for a tissue to dry the black lettering before the four starts resembling a filled in zero. Another report to account for, a few more golds spent. As it usually goes. The light-haired man would have preferred dedicating the noon to his own words. With the weak life he was given, he'd rather not postpone his creativity because of time he may have later.

Cassander would have scolded him for thinking this way. Rightfully. It was a morbid way to think. And Anthemion was never a follower of the pessimistic. Not consciously.

It was hard not to compare. His brothers, a future king and a general. His sisters, one a knight and the others name a staple in whatever fashion trended that year. Anthemion's name was known, written on covers, but what of his likeness? His very presence? Is paper all that will ever be known and exist of him?

No, that isn't true. Because his name is now shared. Another speaks for him. His name, his reputation. Could it even be considered a reputation if people forgot his name in the line-up most often? Well, this name, the one now tied to him through an arrangement, is one that won't leave people's mouths. The incident last year, the fight last week, the squabble just yesterday. Anthemion's spouse is someone everyone talks about. Negatively.

And he finds he isn't bothered by it one bit.

"You've come to see me?" He smiles, the hurtful beating of his heart speeding with excitement. When one doesn't leave to see the world's offerings, he waits for them to come to him to tell him of the world. "Is it about that vase you broke? The letter that came with the bill described quite a scene."