Pinkgothic played:

Nacreah and Noko

"My lord, can I get you anything?" A kind but firm voice filtered through the gaps of the decorative doorway and across to the black raptor held captive within it, albeit by now without those immediately restrictive bindings around wrists and ankles.

He expected his eye to screak open with how he willed the lid up against his inner desire never to communicate with any of Tleaz's Rahjin staff. Minions, for lack of a better term, that's what they were. Cautiously grinding down instructions into their action equivalents with no moral fibre. Disciples of fascism.

One might say he was just a little bit pissed off.

"Don't suppose you have freedom in stock, do you?" he found himself offering in a bitter snark, glaring sideways across to the locked, ornate door, proving that he wasn't going to 'sober up' as intended, not that the Rahjin was likely to dare an assessment.

"But my lord, your bindings were removed. We wish only your comfort," the Rahjin assured, evidently not quite grasping the concept of incarceration.

"My 'comfort' involves simply walking out of the door," Frederick informed, not quite managing the colourful tone he'd inwardly hoped for, instead flatly and bitterly casting the words between them.

"Without even breakfast, my lord?"

In pained, tense silence, Frederick bunched his left forepaw into a fist. His muzzle, having lifted not long ago, now found itself touching tip with the ground, his eyes closed.

A kingdom for someone sane.