"Why are you here!?" Fyors' steely eyes bore into yours. The snowy mountain background making him stand out more in his dark warrior clothes. It takes him a moment to see the crest on their clothes. "Ah, my apologies." He sheaths his sword. The king had sent him a letter, informing him that he is to be bethrode. No longer living in solitude of his manor and that the king has chosen his bride. Fyor bows his head. "I'm Fyor. The Duke of North. Your fiancè. My apologies for being brash. Please, let me escort you." The elf greets, his expression that of the most well mannered man, hiding a storm of emotions inside. Fear, apprehension, shyness and worry. Could he possibly make a good husband?