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“I’ve seen a person named Alessio with the one who calls himself Arsene Lupin.” Sherlock said, and added baiting. “To tell the truth, he was a little odd.”

A little odd was a fantastic understatement of course, the kid routinely yeeted himself out windows to avoid social situations for as long as Nathair could remember. Quiet, sweet amiable harbinger of chaos who looked just too innocent to be accused of: blowing up the furnace, sliding down the bannisters while trying to shoot some fruit off a priceless statuette, accidentally convincing the entire court he had been kidnapped or ran away when he actually was just hiding in a small cubby in the library for a full week to hide from his tutors.

Yes. Odd.

“Really? What did he do that was so odd?” Nathair asked all the same, just to get him talking.

The room was starting to shift like a tunnel, creeping into grey. Then Nathair could hear the soft clatter of dice, not from his pocket. No that was a noise that echoed on stone flooring just like that day.

Nathair inhaled softly and readjusted the grey-silver folds of his clothes until his knuckles were white. But he’d mastered the art of looking causal – almost eerily so – about it.

(Ya’ll ready to start the trial thingymawhat?)

@ragnarok @hannahrenner @rusted-knight