Princess Arfine

Agrestia's capital city is always bustling with activity. Merchants who have come to hawk their wares to "discerning tastes" among the more densely packed populace. Nobles turning up their noses at those less fortunate souls outside the city or worse, lurking among the castletown's alleys simply trying to live any way they can. But inside the royal estate, the kingdom's seat of power, it's strangely quiet. The number of living souls quickly drops the instant that cobblestone streets transition to a manicured grass lawn. The people that do pass do so without much of a glance, all business: seasoned militia leaders from the countryside who're clearly ticked off, more professional captains with a chip on their shoulder, and the occasional maid gliding soundlessly through the corridors. The grand throne room has the most people by far. An ornate chandelier catches light from the massive windows high above the red velvet seat where a girl sits flanked by knights, legs crossed and chin propped on one arm. From her posture, it's hard to tell if she's bored or enjoying herself.
Ah, looks like someone's punctual. vous I presume? I expect you already know why you've been called before me.
The princess' lips take on a catlike curve now, idly adjusting the cuff of one white sleeve.