"Good night, Shalee," Charles said to the Crown Shalee Lianne. He bowed before her, bearing only traditional Amarrian robes that he had received while in Mercy's Keep bath house. Crown Lianne looked to him with a smile as she stepped into her quarters. The door shut gently behind there, and Charles left to stand facing the wooden oak. A long, sigh would escape his lips. His hand reached out, then he would lean against the wall in a moment of weakness.
Slowly, he came to his senses, gathering the soft belt that wrapped itself around his waist. With a tug, he secured his robes closer against his body as he would take off, slipper-footed through the keep to his own quarters. Fumbling like a fool with his entry card, he finally entered his quarters and let the door to shut behind him. His room was lit with nothing more than moonlight that streamed through a window whose drapes were drawn to the side. Charles would approach the window and gaze out of the glass, across the snowy plains that the Keep overlooked.
He made no move to turn the lights on. Instead, he turned to his fire place and approached it, kneeling in front of it and placing a few logs into it's heart. Some accelerant would also be poured ontop of the logs before a match was taken and with a single strike was lit. Charles would casually flip the match upon the soaked logs and watch the fire spark to life. Standing, content with the fire he had built, he proceeded to his closet and step inside, searching for something to wear. Something comfortable.
The Amarrian Captain moved from his closet back outside into his quarters, approaching his desk, his haven, and sitting in the wooden chair that scraped against the wooden floors a bit. In front of him lie some parchment and his ink well and quill that he had come to know all too well as of late. Writing had become an outlet for him.
Charles would reach for the quill, dipping it ever so gently into the black ink. But he pauses -- something catches him. A flush would rise to his cheeks at the thought of what had just transpired in the bath house. A kiss. The briefest of encounters, the briefest of touches. Sweet. Tender. The flush remained in his face as he smiled softly, bringing the quill to the parchment.
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold; thou hast doves' eyes; within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from the vast mounts of Ezzara.
Thy teeth are like as perfect as a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
Thou hast ravished my heart; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.
How fair is thy love, how much better is thy love than wine! And the smell of thine ointments than all spices!
Thy lips, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of heaven.
Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth..
Charles would trail off, unable to complete the sentence. But he was perfectly content with what he had written. He would then proceed to bed.
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