*Of Moonfae, Satyrs and Stolen Kisses*

Outside the windowless room, it is an unusually quiet night. The door, left partially open to the balcony allows for a drab amount of moonlight to filter inwards, casting mixed shadows that dance and clash with those that the lone candle in the room unwittingly emits.

The raw and acrid smell of a cigar wafts gently through the air floating nonchalantly over the mahogany writing desk and licks the rim of the glass from which he drinks, as if to savor the fine liquor.

Saying that the evening that had passed had been anything but unusual would be a gross understatement. Tybalt had become accustomed to the constant and nagging introspection he often subjected himself to since the apparent fall of his kingdom and this night it seemed not only more bitter, but also the most promising.

Primarily, there was his overriding concern for Kira and Dimitri. Aside from Stile, there were few others that had such intimate knowledge of the moonfae and their somewhat eclectic customs.
He knew that this union could not only stir up further derision from the other 'Guardians' but could also place what little of the court that remained behind in obvious danger.

Gently he raises the fine crystal glass to his lips and drinks deeply of the golden and musky cognac. He inhales deeply as he does so, allowing the intense aroma to penetrate his senses. Perhaps, Tybalt considered that it would be only he that would face any danger should it arrive; that, he waged, he would willingly accept. He would not hazard a guess at the Moonfae King's perspective on his court or changelings in general; their race was far too hard to fathom with their unusual customs and codices of law.

He had wished them well, perhaps a foolish boon to grant in retrospect, but Tybalt had always felt that there was no emotion more powerful, more complete, than the emotion of love. Aside from the potential backlash from the Moonfae, another issue could not escape him. That of Dimitri's place in Silvara's court. Tybalt had heard a great deal of this wily yet apparently philosphical satyr, that his wisdom and stylings surpassed those of the best wits of the day. A pleasant surprise, he found those stories to be true. Under most circumstances, Tybalt would not have allowed on of Silvara's court to enter his freehold, but perhaps missing the company and debate that he enjoyed so much, he found his heart accepting of this young one.

He reclines slowly, removing his hat and throwing it quite inaccurately towards the empty bed. As Tybalt pulls his legs up to rest on the desk, he realizes painfully that almost a year had passed since Dwenna's sudden departure and fall of his court. He had not truly smiled in all that time, only feigning happiness for show, or to concerned friends who worried that perhaps he was spending too much time in his solitary room, drunkenly sedated.

Tybalt recollected seeing Aeife for the first time since his marriage, she and her sisters had come to wish the King and New Queen of the Fae well. She was but a child then, but the seed of beauty had clearly been planted in both her soul and her visage. A chance meeting in Minoc, perhaps a month or so ago, presented him with a creature who had blossomed into a woman who's demeanor paralleled her great beauty. Out of courtesy, the wanderer had invited her kindly to visit if she liked, that company was always welcome, particularly in these days of hardship and loneliness; though he did not tell her as much.

He inhales deeply from the cigar and blows delicate, warm, wavering rings of fragile smoke into the air. Drunkenly pushing himself up from his chair, he removes himself to the balcony and leans heavily onto the rail looking over the still and empty freehold.

Indeed, he considered, it was stranger still that she had come to visit him that evening. Perhaps she had desired some company as well. He was courteous and complimentary as was his nature to be, but perhaps, he sensed, something was stirring inside him. Perhaps it was too soon, he did not know. He could not fathom feeling this way for anyone so soon.

But she had blushed and stolen a kiss, her warm lips imparting a quivering excitement for that singular moment that they touched. As she had left Tybalt found a smile upon his face that lately had seem more fit for weariness. Perhaps it was all imagined, some crazed fury that he had conjured up in a dream. But as he touches his lips some faint, sweet trace of perfume, could it still linger? Pushing himself back from the rail, he slumps deeply into the chair and patiently awaits the arrival of dawn and the warmth of a new day.