In the coming days, Bruno kept a close eye on two aspects of his life. On the one hand he watched the matter in Versailles with the keenness of a starving hawk.
On the other hand, he watched the internal developments of his own house's affairs like that of a draugr who kept an eternal vigil of the throne he was sat proudly upon.
Whispers shifted through the spiraling corridors of his baroque palace. Once built, in part at least, by his own hand, and that of his sons.
Bruno had never cared much for the silenced hush of words that were better left unspoken, but still somehow found the coruage to still escape in the wider world.
It was not the words spoken directly to one's face that a man needed to fear, the poison exchanged betrween conspirators behind his back.
But these whispers were not those that lingered in the darkness of an aging monarch's paranoid and feeble mind.
