He was looking at the garden, leaning from a limestone balcony, taking a deep breath while he was away from the many people, heating up the room behind him.

David took a small, bored sip of his glass, by now he didn't even know anymore what was in it. He had, admittedly, never liked the parties. Especially not ones like these, swarming with women, all trying to catch the eye of the manor's heir, of age, and with the current lord of Silverwood manner barely being able to hold dominion over the many acres he processed. The manor, over three hundred years old and named after the surrounding birch tree forest, had been built with brown stones and marble decorations. Newer, small, octagon windows brightened up the house and had been added to the house in a very symmetric way. The Silverwood manor was surrounded by acres and acres of land, and fenced in with a hedge, stretching out larger than the biggest man in their stable could reach.

David, now putting his glass of unknown liquid on the ridge of the limestone balcony, buttoned up his black jacket, that he had unfastened before due the heat. The little brass button poked through and ensured him he wouldn't get cold in the cold midnight hour of winter.

He had to slide his way to the door, back to the wall, hiding himself as not to be noticed by anyone.

After he felt the welcome cold of the marble hallway and took a deep breath, enjoying the cold air he pulled into his lungs.

The door closed behind him with a dull sound, leaving the musical entertainment to be a fading whisper as he walked further and further away from that dreaded door.

His shoes betrayed his intentions, moving loud and fast between the halls it could reach, telling all who would hear that there was a person that did not enjoy the festivities.

Never had David wished to be with a woman out only for his riches-to be, who masked themselves in white powder to look alluring, only for him to question if they were eighter dying or covering themselves in white paint, trying to cover something.

Neighter did he love the pounds and pounds of petticoats underneath their dresses, to hold that fashionable bellshaped silhouette. If he ever had to touch a lady's hand, he had to stretch himself out as far as he could, to even be able to even greet the woman.

The door leading outside now also closed behind him, silencing the musical entertainment that was happening on the other side of the mansion for his ears. He gave a sigh of relief, and put his hands in his black woollen pockets to keep them warm since the tips of the grass was white with frost. The frost even cracked underneath his leather shoes as he walked off of the gravel path, so no damned soul would follow him and disturb him in his quest for silence and solitude.

He found his solitude in the stables, the time now being midnight, the stablehands had left the horses tended for the night, so the only sound he hoped to hear, would be the calming sound of horses eating their night's hay, and the occasional neigh. His brown hair started to bother him, as he felt like having loose hair around the stables was just not very proper. He grabbed in his pocket, and took a black silk ribbon out to tie into his hair. After combing his brown hair, that reached towards his neck, back, he tied the ribbon around the strands of hair. After a few tries and his hair slipping away from his fingers a few times, the culprit being the curvy texture he was born with, the ribbon was secured in its place.

He greeted the first horses in his path, this year's foals, who greeted him with sleepy but thankful neighs as he threw them a few other handfuls of hay, as an apology for his disturbance of their night.

David walked further into the stables, greeting the mares and the odd stray cat that was hunting the mice that called the stables their own.

Finding no other suitable place to sit down his weary feet, the young Lord sat himself down on the first available mount of hay. The pregnant white mare in the stable behind him, round as the biggest winebarrel he had ever seen, making noises of disapproval as the man had just sat down in her midnight feast. Tired and overwhelmed he stroke her pink, soft nose, looking forward to nothing in particular.

His face felt warm and was most likely reddened of the combination between a warm room, and the mysterious alcoholic beverage he had drunken.

Although he wished he had taken a hat or a pair of gloves with him to keep the cold air off of his freezing hands, the pregnant mare's neck sufficed as well. He had the feeling the mare even enjoyed the strokes she got underneath her itchy mane.

As he stayed on the mount of hay next to the mare, his only knowledge of the time was the far away noise of the bell tower in the next town over that was currently ringing it's bells, the poor man working the bell's ropes being awake at his hour.

If it had been up to him, there would be no more of such parties, or at least not with the intent his father, the current Lord and master of Silverwood Manor, had for them. Nagging they did, begging for him to take a wife and to give them the grandson his elderly father had yearned for, after his older sister had only given them two granddaughters.

As he was contemplating his thoughts, he heard another pair of footsteps on the stones of the stables, and was pulled out of his thoughts. The heavy footsteps of men's boots, heavy soldiers' boots in fact, walked up to him. Around the corner he fixed his attention, where a few seconds later a man appeared. A dark-skinned man, smaller than him, but broader too, walked up, causing David to get up from the hay to greet the man.

The man featured a wide face, a large nose, lucious lips, and large brown eyes.

His dark, almost black hair short, fine and decorated with elaborately shaved patterns that mesmerized him. Before David could open his mouth to tell the man the stables were not for guests at the moment, the man spoke for him.

'Zachary Raymond, Lord Duchard, it's an honour to cross paths' he said, while his deep voice made Nathaniel feel the vibrations of that voice deep into his stomach.

'David Duchard....' He said, mesmerized by the strange man, shaking his hand. The man's large hand seemed to fit perfectly into his own hand, but why his mind raced to that conclusion, he had no idea. Dismissively he banned the thought out of his hand.

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