The Estate, Sidra, Glacia, Saturday Evening Fandom Time

[not_a_parakeet]

Some days, Warren found himself drowning in paperwork. Some days, he walked into his office to be faced with a stack of petitions to Glacia's Consort that was so high he was pretty sure he would never see the bottom

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[glacial_queen]

Karla was entertaining some aristo ladies in one of the many smaller rooms at the estate, five older matriarchs who were trying to convince her that they should really and truly be exempt from the ban on Arcerian cat fur. For reasons, both sartorial and financial. That they had, that were really something other than 'we want to be

[not_a_parakeet]

"Lord Mallory has been screening our mail," Warren growled, wings skill mantled, his hand still knotted in the other male's lapel as he glowered at him from where the poor male was now pinned against the wall. "I'm merely having a chat with him about what does and does not constitute junk mail. Columbia House Records, sure, junk. Anything with 'Landen Bastard' in the address? Absolutely. But unless letters addressed to me personally are obviously trying to sell me something I don't need or they're writing to inform me that I could stand to improve somehow upon the size of my cock, he is not to filter my mail from this point onward!"

Yeah. Still snarling.

Sorry, Mallory.

[glacial_queen]

"Lord Worthington, attend," Karla said coldly. "Mallory's just doing his job, otherwise we'd be awash in worthless invitations to functions we don't need to go to. Let him go."

She'd get to the bottom of this in a moment, but honestly, Warren, we did not jack a member of the Queen's Triangle up against the wall without damn good reason. And a scuffle over mail rights?

Not a good enough reason.

[not_a_parakeet]

Warren, well-trained in Protocol though he was, still wasn't Blood. And so, while he absolutely intended to do as he was told, he still took a moment to snarl in Mallory's face before dropping him back to the floor and turning t face Karla with a bow.

It was still a very prickly bow.

"Worthless invitations, I can forgive," he said, each word still a carefully clipped, low growl. "But there are some letters that have no business being disposed of before my eyes see them, my Queen."

There was a soft rustling from his hand as he tightened his grip on the poor sheet of paper that he'd come stalking out here with. He was only bleeding into the paper a little by this point, at least.