The entire building is like an Escher painting itself really, an exercise in reticular occlusion, all angles and lines and silly staircases leading to entertaining little nowheres. A perfect place to pile his thoughts, to hoard them, really. When Dallyrasse, or, Lord President Rassilon as the man has taken to calling himself, did indeed ask his reasons for building the structure- of course, he’d claimed the over-protectiveness was due to sounds bothering his ears. And, also of course, the only two he loves, trusts, in all of Creation, the two people who now are with him in the no longer safe room he had built to keep away outside dangers the three of them cannot be caught skirting, know better than that. The Lord President’s assassins are coming. No hiding anymore. For two of them, at least.
“I thought I told you no pears, Mamlaurea,” he rasps, his normally soft voice breaking over the rocks of his intention in a sound like the scratch of nails on glass as he carves the single string of circular letters written on the clean, thick vellum into his memory. Then he cracks his neck and set his shoulders and shakes the letter, dangling it from two lithe fingers as a small, hard and shiny speck clinks on the cream floor. The speck is a Listener, a spying device made to look like a grain of sand idly dropped from a blotted page. Academically, he considers the implicating fruitlessness of curses muttered under the breath, then stamps a foot on the offending machine, which crunches little sparks against his boot. There will be others, after all. The loaded missive is not the last piece in the Game.