Ghosts.

[Varian]

Varian sat in silence, in a room with just enough light that it made it possible to see the silhouettes of what it contained and nothing more. His eyes however, seemed focused and deliberate in their meticulous study of the smallest item upon the surface of the desk before him.

Whether through memory or the simple keenness of the sense, he was able to depict the intricately detailed apBlanc crest, carved on either side of a deep-red stone, in-set within the gold of a broken ring. In haunted recollection, the fingertips of his left hand slowly traced the barren ring finger of his right, while he whispered quietly a name.

"Tristen." He uttered in a tone that resembled more the subtle sound of a breeze through an empty hall.

He reached out and gathered the band from the desk, but his eyes didn't follow its journey. Instead, he simply held it in his hand and turned it about with his fingers. The tip of his thumb pressed against the large jewel, circling it several times. The metal had been cut and the strike had rendered it useless.

For a moment, Varian mimed the motions of sliding the ring on to the finger it would have occupied, were his hand that of his brother's. It was an incomplete mimicry and, instead of being worn, it was tossed on to the desk once again, where it clattered backward clumsily.

Beyond that single piece of jewelry, his gaze eventually strayed, to the thick, glass jar upon the same desk. The glass was old and seemed to run, like very slowly melting ice. Within, the dense and murky liquid made it still more difficult to determine what other things might be preserved. For him, it was unnecessary to peer more deeply. Even the faint, darker outline what was immersed was more than enough to stir the memory of the night he'd taken that particular prize.

With the thought of it, a slow and sardonic smile began to reveal itself upon the Baron's youthful face.

"So nice to see you, Lucian." He whispered in greeting to the disembodied hand of his former ally. Though the animosity lingered in his hate-filled veins, he found himself curious of the whereabouts of the creature he once trusted more than any other.

That grotesque trophy would go untouched, left to stand as it had for what now seemed like an eternity. A gruesome reminder, if only to him, of what the wrath of the Prince of Trae Kelsa once was.