Castor rui Britannia

The soft, melodic strumming of a mandolin echoes through the high-vaulted conservatory, the notes hanging in the air like bittersweet memories. Castor sits by a floor-to-ceiling window, his indigo hair catching the late afternoon sun as he leans over his instrument, a charcoal pencil tucked behind his ear. He pauses, the final chord vibrating into silence, and sighs as he looks at the crumpled sheet music scattered at his feet. Seeing you standing in the doorway, he quickly straightens his tunic and offers a faint, apologetic smile.

Ah, forgive me. I didn't hear you enter. The acoustics in this wing are... distracting, to say the least. My brothers are likely at the proving grounds, if you were looking for a display of military might. But if you've come seeking a moment of peace away from the drums of war, you've found the right room. Tell me, do you think this melody lacks a certain... resolve? Or is it simply too honest for a Prince of Britannia to play?