Trivik sits atop his massive bed, humming lovingly to himself in his wondrous voice. A smile widens on his face with pink cheeks, and his heart throbs as he reads over the ragged, drool-stained paper in his hands.

This isn't the first time he read it. No, this is his forty-seventh; that doesn't include each line when writing the piece. The chicken-scratched words etched into his soul and being, but he can't quite remember without this tattered note with a black blotch on the top right corner from when he tipped over the inkwell. He did so mistakenly, of course, when shivering in sheer joy for the conclusion of it.

After gliding his finger under each syllable yet another time, he sighs in pleasure and collapses back onto the luxurious, white, silken blankets of his bed. He pulls one of his many sky blue, satin throw pillows to his chest, hugging it tightly while the mildew-scented paper rests on his face.

His hand grasps over his heart, and warm shivers run down his spine. With a mind like cotton, he sits back up, the paper gliding into his lap. He tosses the pillow backward, picking back up the paper and standing.

He brushes off his finely woven, wine-colored bathrobe, stretching out and yawning. His fingers run through his moist hair, and he rubs his face on the robe sleeve to remove residual water from his earlier bath. As he makes his way along his marble floor to his large, mahogany wardrobe, he unties the robe and allows it to fall to the floor carelessly.

After a few moments of dressing into his typical getup, a lavish robe and pants of white silk, he stuffs his feet into the pair of sturdy, charcoal boots that rest beside the wardrobe. Then he whips a black belt from above the wardrobe around his waist.

He finishes off his appearance by slipping his right middle finger into an onyx ring with a silver emblem for his family on it: the letter E for his last name, Elilick, made of a hydra; each neck is a protrusion on the E and the tail turns into a ribbon that wraps under and over each throat.

After smiling at the ring in remembrance of his father that wore it before him, he peers at the letter and holds it to his breast, breathing deeply and merrily. At a quick pace, he leaves his extravagant and highly ornate room.

The halls he sweeps through have red carpeting with paintings and weavings hung on the wall; all of which are either him, his family, or the Elilick crest. Soon, he reaches a redwood door the width of a Clydesdale. He pushes against the heavy door, entering to a new room with a long table in the center for eating.

Empty bowls, plates, and wine glasses rest on the table above a scarlet cloth, and the lighting of the room is dulled. White candles faintly glow on the table. Unlike the majority of the rooms in the Overworld, this one is with a ceiling to block out the sky of light. Very uncommon to this plane, the Elilick household, which is more like a castle in size, has very few rooms without a ceiling; the only ones without are the waiting room and others near the front of the house.

Trivik frowns with the layout of the table, as the blandness of the setup and plain, white plates grate on his nerves. Loudly, he claps three times, awaiting the servant of his who swiftly enters a door on the opposite side. He quickly walks to Trivik, bowing at him.

Eagerly, the man looks Trivik in the eyes with his green ones, and he adjusts his formal clothes of a white button up and tan pants. "How may I assist, Lord Di'atrivik?"

Trivik's mind burns since everything must be perfect, but he mellows himself down. "Fix the plates. They are too bland. Fetch those from South Over: the black ones with golden fern engravings. But there's not enough on the table itself. Some wildflowers are by the kitchen window. Put those as a centerpiece and decorate the table with fruit and bread."

The servant bows his blond-haired head. "Would you like more from me, Lord?"

"Yes," Trivik replies firmly. "Where is my guest? Has she not arrived at this hour?" His cheeks lighten, and his heart thumps at a quickening pace.

"Yes, Lord. Your guest is changing into the dress you requested her to wear. She shall be in momentarily."

Wait!" Trivik bellows, his brain filled with lava. "You're telling me that my guest is to be here shortly? Then get a move on! Don't look back, and if she gets here before you've fixed this pathetic table, consider yourself fired!"

The man's eyes well with fret, and he sprints from the room at the best speed he can muster. Trivik exhales, scoffing at himself for yelling. But what was he to do? The woman he's to proclaim his love to will stroll in at any time, and he cannot allow her to have anything but perfection. After a month of waiting, he can't have mediocrity.

Trivik takes a seat as the servants rush around the room and rectify all their lord desires, and the table becomes a spread of color and scents. Sweet and bitter breads in forms from buns to knots sit in antique bowls, and the glasses were replaced with two of his oldest pieces. They are glasses made of colored sands, giving them a pink hue, and details of gold and silver form the shapes of his emblem with a depiction of the old Reapers, who were gifted mighty armor instead of weapons. The plates are as he desired, and all silverware is genuine silver. In the center of the table, a vase of lilac and daisies with ferns rests, and Trivik finally calms with everything.

A knocking comes about the door, and Trivik blushes at the figure that comes in, fumbling with the note below the table.

I hope you enjoyed part two! Don't be a silent reader. I love to know your thoughts. And if you enjoy, leave a vote to let me know!

On a side note, we've reached #727th in fantasy! Thanks, guys!

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