Good lord, you think, staring at the herald's boots as you follow her up a glowing mahogany staircase. In three years here, you've never come within arrow-shot of His Grace's intimate spaces.
The furnishings are increasingly exotic, with silken tapestries of cherry trees in bloom on the wall and grinning clay heads cackling at each other on austere pedestals. Rounding a corner, your heart races at the sight of a massive brown bear—stuffed, of course—cryptically arrayed in the armor and bridle of a warhorse. Duke Ruffino can not have ridden such a thing…can he?
"You do realize I'm still following you, correct?" you ask the herald, just to be sure.
Her sour look confirms that yes, your presence is desired here. The question is, why?